Lights and Shadows: The Search

By Jessica Lynn Love

In the heart of winter, a darkness is descending upon the kingdoms of Adaria. Disturbing whispers have reached Kaaru of a danger, a threat of war on the horizon. With his brother's wedding date drawing near, Prince Torren of Kaaru volunteers to seek out the truth behind the rumors and escort Princess Kiran safely back to Kaaru for her marriage to Crown Prince Heikkar. Torren, along with his best friend, Sir Kadian, and the enigmatic young Rhiander, ninth son to the High King of Adaria, embark on a journey of unexpected adventure and discover that the truth is far more menacing than the rumors. Their quest to find a hidden darkness becomes a search for light in the shadows and a race to stop a force that threatens to upset the balance of power in Adaria, and possibly the whole world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jessica Lynn Love
• Release date: Nov 6, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311957047

Book preview

Legends of Adaria

Lights and Shadows

The Search

by Jessica Lynn Love

Lights and Shadows: The Search

Copyright ©2015 by Jessica Lynn Love

All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher or author is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [e-mail]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

Acknowledgments

This story started as fifty thousand words written during the month of November as my effort to complete the challenge of National Novel Writing Month. I have started many stories, but this is the only one to have ever made it to completion, for which I must thank several people.

First and foremost I must give thanks and high praise to my husband, Joel, who encouraged me to take some time off from having a day job to enjoy life and pursue my dream of being a writer. He was there every step of the way, giving input on names and character development, reading every chapter as I churned them out and giving feedback for where I should go next. He is the inspiration for many of Kadian’s jokes, and he is the one who suggested I needed a stronger female character in the story, thus giving life to Khari. Joel is my knight in shining armor, my prince, my hero.

I also want to give thanks to two ladies who helped turn my rough mess of a story into a final manuscript worthy of public viewing. Anita Mumm of Mumm’s the Word Editing and Critique Services helped strengthen my weaknesses, and Anne Victory of Victory Editing helped polish the stone into a gem.

Finally, I thank Douglas County Libraries and Suzanne LaRue for organizing the NaNoWriMo writing competition and providing me with the opportunity to share my story with others. Support your local library!

Prologue

Heroes emerge in times of darkness. So has it always been. So shall it always be. What need has the light of heroes?

Then you agree with me?

I see the truth in what you say, Your Majesty.

King Okropir eyed the young man before him, a lean, shifty character with unmistakable intelligence burning in his blue-gray eyes. There was another kind of fire in his eyes too, a different fire, burning darkly. Okropir rubbed his beard. You have an idea?

The young man leaned back in his chair, his eyes roaming around the dim room. You are familiar with the legend of Savitar?

Okropir’s forehead wrinkled. Savitar? The Valean legend. Of course. The king searched his memory of the legend for something that would apply to the current situation, but he was at a loss as to why the young man had brought up the hero of old Adaria.

The young man smiled and leaned forward. Perhaps you know only of what you heard as a boy. I will tell you the story as I have learned it. He took a long draught from his mug, wiped his mouth, and settled back into his chair once again. The light and shadows from the flickering fire in the hearth played across his face. When he spoke again, his voice took on a deeply resonant timbre that contrasted sharply with his youthful features.

In a time long ago, a darkness descended across the land of Adaria. Adaria then was not as it is now. No king ruled over all the land in those times. People looked upon their clan chiefs, headmen, and elders for guidance and leadership.

I know as much, Okropir said impatiently. You speak to me as to a child.

The young man clucked. Oh, but my dear king, he replied in a tone that stirred an unknown fear in the king’s heart. In this matter you are as a child. You see without perception. You hear without understanding. You know without knowing. The truth is in your heart, but you have not realized it. Not yet. Hear my story and you will understand.

The king shifted in his seat but said nothing, and the young man continued.

"Now at that time a plague ravaged all the lands of the world. Many people died, crops rotted in the fields for want of harvesters, and livestock perished in their pastures for want of herdsmen. Therefore, famine followed the plague. Some chiefs resorted to theft and kidnapping to satisfy the needs of their people. Fighting among clans grew widespread. Inescapable. Unstoppable. Famine, disease, and war devastated the land. The darkness spread.

"The people prayed to the moons for relief. They pleaded with the Creator for intercession. They despaired for a hero, for someone to rise above the darkness and subdue it as had been done before in the times of their grandfathers and great-grandfathers. When all hope seemed lost, they turned to the mystics and the ways of magic, for in that time magic was not forbidden and knowledge of it was still taught to the young. In the midst of this despair, one mystic grew in power and influence above all others. Iravu Kontuavar.

"In the stories you no doubt heard as a child, Your Majesty, you knew Iravu Kontuavar as He Who Brings the Night. The great villain. The prince of darkness. This much, King Okropir, have you known since you were a child, but now I will tell you the story as it should have been told. From the darkness came hope, and Iravu Kontuavar was the provider of that hope. Though much fear and suspicion surrounded his name, the people of that time clutched at the hope that he offered, and the leaders named him the Great Prince in southern Adaria. He vowed to bring order to the chaos that reigned in the world. Life came again to the land, and peace, and stability, just as he had promised. Within a generation, Iravu Kontuavar had amassed an army of skilled soldiers and well-trained mystics who helped extend the realm of his control throughout all of Adaria and west into the lands of Tamnia and even across the Sea of the Dragon’s Mouth. Order triumphed over chaos wherever Iravu Kontuavar reigned.

"Yet all good things have a price, and even as the people enjoyed their life and peace and order, they began to believe that the price was too high. You are familiar with that other version of the story. They believed that Iravu Kontuavar had too much power. He abused his power, they said. They believed Iravu Kontuavar had given them hollow lives, fragile peace, and uneasy stability. This was not what they wanted, they said. And so the people rebelled against the one who had raised them from their despair.

"The darkness descended once again across the land. The earth heaved at the conflict that raged across the surface, and a shadow fell across the sun and covered the sky in a veil so thick it hid the moons. When all seemed lost and the people began to think of resigning to the darkness that they had brought to the land, a bright flame, brighter than the sun, seared through the sky-shadow. Nilavukal, the great mother of the moons, had hurled a piece of herself down to light the way to the Tervukal.

"As you know, the Tervukal was the great stone of power used by the heroes of old to banish the powers of evil to the realm of darkness, the dream realm, separated from our own reality only by the gulf of our minds. The Tervukal’s power was not physical or even mystical, but mental, a power of the mind. A power of conscious choice.

"And so the flame of Nilavukal’s light pierced across the sky and fell in a field of wheat in the land of Valea. Seeing the falling light, a young farmer named Savitar, the eldest son of his village’s headman, hurried to the field and found the stone. Imbued with the power of the great moon-mother, the stone filled Savitar with its light, so the legend says. When Savitar walked back to his village, the people saw his radiance and bowed down to him.

"In the children’s story, Savitar is a hero, chosen by the moon-mother to defeat Iravu Kontuavar; but I tell you, great king, that Savitar was but a disgruntled yet charismatic peasant who happened to possess a natural intelligence and affinity for magic. He seized power from the Tervukal by force and used his power not to save the people but to enslave them.

History tells us that, being pure of light, Savitar took hope from the stone and was filled with the light of its power. With the hope of the light, Savitar grew his own army, not of conscripts, but of volunteers. However, we must remember that history is recorded by the victorious. Though Savitar’s power grew as he learned to use the stone, he chose to use his power only against Iravu Kontuavar and the putative forces of darkness. He would not coerce or compel anyone to join him in his fight. To each person he gave a choice. No one was a slave to the light, he said, but a servant of it, and that by the choice of free will. Thus Savitar enslaved the people to their own freedom of will. He forbade the practice of magic, depriving the people of that power in order to deprive Iravu Kontuavar of his army, and chaos returned once again to the land.

The young man paused for a moment and glanced out of the corner of his eye to judge the king’s reaction to this new version of the age-old story.

An interesting interpretation, King Okropir replied.

The truth, the young man said.

As you speak it, Okropir countered. Even so, I fail to see how your story, or you, can aid me.

The young man nodded once in acknowledgement. I have not yet come to the conclusion of the tale.

In the end, Savitar and his followers defeated Iravu Kontuavar, Okropir said after retrieving the story from the fog of his childhood memory. As the mighty sorcerer lay fallen and close to death, Savitar had compassion for him. He had hope that the great prince of darkness might one day seek redemption, so he used the power of the Tervukal to banish Iravu Kontuavar to the dream realm. Yet darkness may return, for to banish it entirely would require that Savitar take away the free will of the people, and this he would not do, not even at the risk of a vessel of darkness once again rising to power and possessing the Tervukal.

The young man smiled.

That is not the ending you would tell? Okropir offered.

"In fact, as chaos returned once again to Adaria and the people regained their free will, Iravu Kontuavar sought after Savitar that he might confront him face-to-face. They met in a soft green meadow in the gently rolling hills that border the lands of Valea and Lelea. Dark and light cannot occupy the same space, and so they fought, not a physical battle but a spiritual battle of wills. The battle continued for many days until Savitar’s followers decided to flout the conventions of one-on-one combat. They added their own wills to Savitar’s and overwhelmed Iravu Kontuavar.

Savitar had not the power to finish off Iravu Kontuavar completely, however, so he used the Tervukal to bridge the gap between our reality and that of the dream world, exiling the poor soul to an existence surrounded by darkness in the City of the Fallen. So Iravu Kontuavar dwells still in the place where darkness rules.

Surely, were Iravu Kontuavar meant to triumph, the great moon-mother would have sent her light to him instead, Okropir pointed out. He did not particularly care whether the young man’s story held any truth to it or not, but he felt the perverse desire to poke holes in it all the same. And there is the matter of his name.

The young man looked taken aback. Your Majesty, perhaps the night grows long for you? Your acuity must have diminished for you to have missed the point.

Okropir adjusted his robes in agitation. He began to speak, but he had no reply to the chastisement, which he admitted to himself was truly deserved after all.

Yes, I am not as young as I once was.

The young man bowed his head deferentially, and Okropir’s irritation subsided. When the young man spoke again, he spoke not as a storyteller to a child but as an advisor to a king, his voice taking on a tone of insistence and determination.

The great moon-mother did not send her light to a single man but to all the world. She lit the way to the Tervukal. Chance placed Savitar near the stone, but surely he should have delivered the stone unto Iravu Kontuavar, a master of magic who would know how to use it properly. As for Iravu Kontuavar’s name, I had thought that would be most obvious. Night is darkness, yes, but a darkness in which light shines. The stars and the moons live in harmony and balance with the darkness of night. He Who Brings the Night is he who brings order.

King Okropir narrowed his eyes. What do you propose?

I believe I can acquire the stone.

The words hung thick and heavy in the air. Okropir pursed his lips. He could feel his heartbeat echoing in his head. The room suddenly felt very warm. The Tervukal? You believe it is real?

Yes, Your Majesty, the young man said in a low voice, conveying the forcefulness of his conviction most effectively.

For all his obtuseness earlier, Okropir understood now the meaning to the story and immediately comprehended the young man’s plan. This is treason, Okropir warned.

Treason is a rather subjective crime. The young man brushed the idea aside with a casual wave of his hand.

Okropir could not be so dismissive of the young man. The risk was great, but the reward even greater. If Okropir did not take the risk, someone else surely would. He had to think of what was best for his people. He had to think of what was best for the world.

If you are wrong…, Okropir began uncertainly.

I am not. The young man’s confidence was palpable. He sat up in his chair and looked Okropir in the eyes. Everything will unfold at the proper time. The stone will come to you, and you will come into your power. We will both come into our power.

King Okropir felt the young man’s fire hot against his own face. His hands began to tremble. A terrible risk. He wiped his hand across his cheek.

The young man sensed Okropir’s uncertainty and shifted in his seat. You would rule the world not as a mere king, but as an emperor. Peace. Stability. Comfort. These you can bring to your people. You will have the power to destroy your opposition for all time and bring harmony and balance to the world.

And you ask only to be the Great Prince of southern Adaria?

So I have said.

King Okropir swallowed. What would you have me do?

* * *

Khari silently watched the glow of the dying sun send forth one last gasp of light up from the horizon.

You must leave me. A frail voice broke the silence.

Khari turned her gaze upon the old man as the dark earth swallowed the last beams of light. The old man sat facing the looming black mountains as the deep purple of twilight descended. He had a hard gleam in his eyes. Khari, kneeling beside him, bowed her head. She had known the time would come eventually, that she would be sent away once more, though she had hoped that perhaps he would have proved to be different from all the others.

Yes, Grandfather.

In truth, the old man was not related to Khari in any way, but she had taken to calling him Grandfather to make herself feel better. He had taken her in and opened her mind to possibilities she never would have considered otherwise. She had grown comfortable living with him, caring for him, learning from him. Yet such was her life that, any time she began to feel comfortable, something happened that drove her onward and away. She sighed.

Dear child, he said with gentleness, do not think that I am sending you away.

I do not understand. Khari fought back the tears and the tightening of her throat.

Now the old man sighed. He lifted a shriveled hand to her face. My dear girl, you must leave me. I do not wish it, but alas, you must, for your own good. My time has come.

No, Grandfather. You have many years left yet, and I still have much to learn.

That is precisely why you must leave me. They are coming for me.

Who is coming for you?

The people. The people are coming. They have been told that the ancient ways are evil. There is nothing more to it for them. As long as I lived here hidden away in my mountains and kept to myself, they were satisfied, but now the king has issued a decree. They are coming for me, and they must not find you here. They must think that the knowledge of the ancient ways has died with me.

Khari stared at the old man. His words held little sense, but such was his way. The only explicit idea, though she could not comprehend it, was that he meant for her to leave him. Silent tears began to slip out of the corners of her eyes. She blinked away the wetness and saw that the old man was crying too. The folds of his skin gathered tightly around his mouth. There would be no more words. Khari slipped her smooth, strong hand into his bony, feeble one and turned her face to the mountains as the darkness fell around them.

* * *

As the mountains were taking their leave of the sun, young Ustoro scrambled over the rough terrain of the foothills surrounding his home. Mother would be enraged that he had gone wandering so far in such troubled times. Not that troubled times were anything unusual. Danger was a part of life, and most people accepted and even reveled in the violent spirit of the land. Ustoro was too young to recognize that the danger of the past had changed and had given way to something darker.

The spirit of curiosity possessed him, though, as it so often does young boys. He didn’t mean to disobey his mother’s orders, but the lure of the forest was too strong. Here amongst the black pines he had established his own kingdom where birds served as his heralds and the squirrels and rabbits who were his subjects fled at the sound of his forthcoming footsteps. The trees trembled at the sight of him, and the bushes yielded their sweet fruit in tribute to their tyrant. But this tyrant only ruled the day. At night he must yield to the power of the moons. He never admitted to fear but pretended that it was by his command that he delegated the rule of the night while he slumbered in his royal chamber.

Ustoro pushed through the foliage, peering around every tree, half-afraid and half-excited at the thought of seeing a filthy Vlaan, the barbarian swamp people of the west, or maybe a fur-clad warrior of Kamenka. Neither had been seen in the northern wilds of Nasiriya for at least a generation, but Ustoro had heard the stories often enough that he was convinced the images living in his imagination might appear at any moment.

He clutched tighter at the broken limb he held—a sword to his mind—every time he heard the rustle of his own feet tenderly stepping over the carpet of pine needles. As he came closer to the little stream that flowed swiftly down the steep hillside, the pine needles gave way to cool, soft earth, and he paused to sift the dirt between his wiggling toes. He made to continue his adventure, but something caught his eye and he grabbed at the trunk of the nearest tree. Gripped with sudden fear, his chest heaving, heart pounding, he clamped his eyes shut and buried his head in his arms. After what seemed like hours, Ustoro gathered up his courage and slowly stole a look around his fortress-tree.

There was nothing.

Whatever it was had vanished, and Ustoro breathed a heavy sigh of relief. For the moment, his curiosity had been satiated, and he decided to end his sylvan excursion. As he ambled home in the dying light, he thought he heard the sound of very distant thunder muffled through the trees. He picked up his pace, but something was wrong with the sound. Instead of fading into nothingness, the sound grew louder as he neared his home on the outskirts of the village. The rumbling sound changed into something else, something vaguely familiar, but Ustoro could not immediately identify it. Then he heard shouting. Then screams.

Ustoro dropped his sword-stick and sprinted the rest of the way to the rough wood steps that led to the back door of his home. Before he could open the door, two of his older cousins burst through and nearly knocked him back down the stairs.

What’s going on? Ustoro asked uncomprehendingly.

Run, Ustoro! the younger of the two cousins yelled as he shoved past and tore off into the woods.

The older cousin grabbed Ustoro roughly by the arm and pulled at him. Come on, let’s go! Come with us!

Ustoro wrenched himself free and stepped back toward the door. Why? Tell me what’s going on!

His cousin kept running until he looked back over his shoulder and saw that Ustoro had not followed. We must run or they will take us!

Ustoro still didn’t understand, but he was scared and he wanted his mother. He ripped open the back door and flew into the house. The front door was open, and he heard his mother’s cries. In front of the house, a company of soldiers was corralling any man or boy, and even some women who looked capable of fighting. Ustoro ran to his mother as he watched his father and uncle being shoved into line with the rest of the conscripts.

Ma, what’s happening? Where is Da going? Ustoro asked as tears began to wet his face.

His mother embraced him, and he felt the power of her love surround them both. Whatever was going on, she would protect him.

Hand him over! a harsh voice ordered.

Not him! Ustoro’s mother cried, wrapping her arms more tightly around the boy.

Come on, you hill tramp! The soldier slapped her. Give me the whelp.

Another soldier joined the first and held Ustoro’s mother while the first soldier pried him from her arms. Ustoro kicked and screamed and flung his arms in a vain attempt to beat the soldier off. His mother’s protective barrier had fallen. Ustoro felt himself being pulled away and threw a hand desperately back toward his mother. Their hands locked with a desperate strength, but it was not enough. Ustoro felt his hand slipping, felt his fingers slide apart, and then there was nothing but air.

Mother! Ustoro screamed. He struggled ferociously against the burly arms of his captor, who was dragging him now and cursing. Ustoro wiggled around until he maneuvered his head near the man’s hand and bit down with enough force to draw blood. The man’s grip weakened enough for Ustoro to duck out of his grasp and stumble away.

He turned and began to run blindly back to his mother, but he immediately ran into a wall and fell on his back, knocking his head against the hard-packed ground. He choked for breath and tried to remember if there had ever been a wall there before. He blinked the tears out of his eyes and realized that he had not run into a wall at all, but a man.

A knight.

Have no fear, lad. We will not harm you, the tall, bronze-armored knight said with surprising gentleness. He flung his green-and-blue cloak over his shoulder and extended a hand to Ustoro, helping the boy to his feet. You will fight in the king’s army. That is a great honor.

Ustoro’s head spun. Everything had happened so quickly. Tears still clung to his eyelashes.

The knight crouched down so his face was more level with Ustoro’s. You should be brave for your mother, he whispered.

Ustoro nodded and straightened his shoulders. The knight motioned for the boy to join the others. The recruitment accomplished, the knight ordered his men to begin the march that would lead sons away from their mothers, fathers from their children, husbands from their wives. Ustoro’s mother fell on her knees and covered her face with her apron, still pleading for her only child.

Babies cried, dogs barked, and sad eyes watched with lost hope as the strength of the village disappeared into the darkness.

Chapter 1

The snow was falling in that magical way where gravity appears to exert less of its force on the flakes, allowing them to float softly down rather than fall. It was cold and dry and quiet. Stillness created by movement. The familiar sounds of life