The Tower of Dreams: The Dreaming King Saga, #1

By Richard Friesen

He who dreams of the kingdom is king…

On midwinter's night, the king of Dendalen must climb the treacherous path to the Tower of Dreams, where he will receive a prophetic dream to help him guide his nation through the year to come.

Prince Magnus, not king and not even the heir, enjoys studying with the high priest more than learning swordplay with his father and elder brother.

But that night, while the king lies in wait of a dream that does not come to him, Magnus dreams of two orphaned children—a thief from the slums and a sergeant's daughter—who will somehow hold the fate of the nation in their hands. And he dreams of his brother's betrothed waiting in the palace, wearing a crown and heavy with child, as the darkness of war, and magic that kills whatever it touches stalk the land.

When Magnus tells his father the dream, his father asks him to lie, not about their kingdom's dark future—but about who dreamed.

Injustice hides in plain sight as magic dooms the world. Come with Magnus as he tries to find the truth behind the prophecies that will save not only his own kingdom, but the entire world.

 

The Dreaming King Saga

The Tower of Dreams (this book)

An Uncivil War

On Black Mesa

The Gates of Heaven

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Richard Friesen
• Release date: Jan 5, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524279844

Book preview

1: The Ascent

Prince Magnus hated the Ascent, the cold, dark climb and the soul-chilling night in Drommarna Torn, the Tower of Dreams. His father relished it. The prophetic dreams gave him power.

The icy north wind tried to push Magnus up the stair carved into the Skalletberg’s black rock. The narrow passage between the Bergenfastning and the Vittsten Katedral funneled winter’s breath into a fury.

Unable to settle down, Magnus fidgeted. Something nagged at his attention like a buzzing mosquito and wouldn’t let go. He had tried to meditate and calm himself, to no avail.

He gazed up at the mountain—black rock and white snow. A few stunted trees clung to crevasses. Flames flickered along the path, and high overhead, the tower itself glowed like a beacon to the lost. Another gust from the north tossed snow into the air.

Haug Prasta Ulf, Magnus’s teacher and mentor, emerged from the cathedral’s northwest corner dressed in white fur and bearing a steaming cup. Three other priests in black vestments followed him. The king’s family in front and the crowd behind watched as the priests processed toward the stair.

The assembled royalty stepped aside and let them pass. Haug Prasta Ulf mounted one step and turned to face those who would ascend. We are gathered here on the darkest night of the year so the light of Valjar might shine on us and guide us through the coming days. Who dares ascend to the Tower of Dreams?

Magnus’s father stepped forward and raised his hand. I, King Hakan of Dendalen, will make the Ascent, and Valjar willing, will dream to protect my people.

The haug prasta offered the flagon. Drink, then, tea from the Drom Flood’s holy water and herbs from the Night Grove. If you are worthy, step up.

King Hakan took the cup and drank. He climbed four steps to wait. Prince Filip came forward, and the high priest repeated the question. Then came Princess Brigida. Last and youngest, Magnus drank the hot tea. It coursed through his chest and up to his head. It had never done that before.

Taking his place on the bottom tread, Magnus stepped carefully in the ice and snow. Magnus’s mother and his other sister chose not to make the Ascent, as usual. They disliked the cold and saw no value in being present.

Haug Prasta Ulf lit a ceramic oil lamp. Let the light of Valjar guide us this night. He climbed the steps past the royal party on the right while another priest walked on the left with an identical lamp. The two priests began the climb, preceding the royal family. Behind Magnus came two more priests pounding drums. Half a dozen guards followed.

As the slow beat reverberated off the stone walls, everyone stepped in time, scaling the thirty-three icy steps cut into the cleft. The walls closed in as they rose, and Magnus felt caged.

With a single hard beat, the drums stopped. The haug prasta had reached the top. He and the other lamp bearer stepped aside. A five-foot snow wall blocked the way.

The high priest said, Pass through the snow gate, and enter the realm of dreams.

When Magnus’s father stepped between the two priests and pushed through the drift, it showered snow on his head. Some flakes reached down to Magnus, cooling his face. Magnus squirmed while waiting his turn. He wanted off this stair. Filip and Brigida widened the way.

When Magnus’s turn came, the rock and snow on the stair closed around his soul. He barreled through, smashing the white passage. Snow and ice stuck to his cheeks, melting to streak his face like tears. His soul soared out and up, taking in the snowy path; the lights along the way; the high, black ridge above; and the tower rising to heaven.

The priests put out the lamps. The stars lit their way, and the snow seemed to glow as their eyes adjusted to the darkness.

Magnus followed his father up the path as it zigzagged across the Skalletberg.

In places, the snow piled as high as Magnus’s head on both sides, but it no longer closed him in. Instead it all comprised a greater whole that he could see for the first time. After half a mile, they came to a sharp right turn. At the corner, an ice cave had been carved back into the hill. More an alcove than a cave, the entrance stood wide and high enough to see into. A soft glow came from within.

King Hakan stopped and entered while Magnus and the others watched from outside. Cloth draped the cave, and a rug covered the floor. Hot coals in a small brazier near the entrance warmed the space. Incense and perfume fogged the air, making Magnus glad he needn’t go in.

The two men there, each dressed in fine robes and gold chains, knelt before the king. One held out a model boat, the other a wagon, both gaily painted and ostentatious. Gracious king, the Merchants’ Guild is honored to be present at the dreaming and asks that Valjar grant us assistance this year.

King Hakan examined the two models and both rattled as he turned them over in his hands. Magnus’s mouth fell open. They’d put gems inside! Sacrilege! Bribes would not affect the dream, but it mocked the sacred rite. Why would his father allow such a thing? When had this started? How had Magnus missed it before?

These tokens are acceptable, King Hakan said. We will take them to the tower and dream what we may. The king turned and handed the models to Haug Prasta Ulf, who put them in a basket. Where Ulf had gotten the basket, Magnus did not know.

On the next rise, with a steep fall to their right, Magnus’s strange awareness grew. He stepped close to Brigida. When she slipped, he caught her. Together they slid down the snow-covered path but didn’t go over. For a moment they both stood, breathing hard.

Brigida shook him off. Let go, Magnus. What do you think you were doing?

Well, I didn’t think you wanted to be a snowball tonight.

Humph! She turned and started up the path, but she looked over her shoulder. I was not going over.

Yes, Sister. Magnus struggled not to smile.

Farther up, they rounded a bend and passed through a narrow cleft in the rock. The wind seemed to push them up the hill, but it didn’t bring snow. The night remained clear and cold, a good sign. In a sheltered spot at another sharp turn, they found the second snow cave. Straw covered the floor, a tad dangerous given the brazier. The couple inside wore red, yellow, and green clothes with beads and tassels—plains garb for special occasions.

With the same ceremony, they handed the king some gathered wheat heads. A gold coin hung from the ribbon tying the bundle. They also presented a ceramic cow, another coin where the bell would be. Fury welled in Magnus. How had the sacred dreaming come to this?

Ulf deposited the offerings in the basket, and they continued up the hill. Magnus fumed that his father and these men had corrupted the dreaming.

The wind howled and bit at Magnus’s fingers and nose, but it couldn’t touch the warmth from the high priest’s draught. Ever higher they climbed over the dark, snow-covered boulders.

In the next cleft, two men dressed in leather adorned with beaten metal occupied the snow cave. These two had not lined their snowy walls but had planted metal rods to hang more braziers. Runnels carved in the floor carried melted water out into the night. The miner handed the king a gold nugget. The smith handed Hakan a miniature warrior’s helm. Magnus thought it steel until it shone yellow in the flickering light.

After the third cave, they climbed up over a spur and down into a narrow gorge sheltered from the north wind. Here the snow lay deeper, and footing became treacherous. Almost Magnus wished the wind would return. Soon, however, they came to the fourth snow cave, nestled like the others against the Skalletberg. This one yawned black as night, but not from stone. Fine woven Svartberg wool lined the walls, the same that made Magnus’s winter wardrobe.

The man and woman inside—a shepherd and a weaver—wore quilted wool coats. Red and orange glass beads hung from their braided tassels. When they saw the king, they fell to their knees and held their offering, a woven lamb, in trembling hands.

Oh, gracious king, the man said, the humble shepherds and weavers are honored to be present at the dreaming. Diseases have ravaged our flocks. We offer all we have to spare and ask Valjar to grant us assistance this year.

King Hakan stretched out his hand to take the lamb. It did not clank or rattle at all. He examined it and handed it back. This token is not acceptable. The shepherds will have no dreaming this year.

The man’s eyes grew wide, and tears filled the woman’s eyes, but both bowed their heads. Neither said more. The king turned to leave, and Magnus stared at him. He’d never seen his father act this way. How could he deny them the dreaming?

The others, except the guards, had walked by. Magnus ducked into the cave and took the woven lamb from the shepherd. With a finger to his lips, Magnus put the lamb in his cloak pocket. The woman whispered her thanks, eyes shiny with tears. Ducking back out, Magnus hurried after the others.

They topped a ridge, and the tower came into sight, hidden all this while by the Skalletberg’s ramparts. Even on the beaten path, they pushed through calf-deep powder. Below the final stair lay one last snow cave. Neither fire nor coals lit this one. It looked as if the moon shone from inside.

Three robed figures waited, snug and warm. Magnus knew one on sight, the Vale of Stars head wizard, Galen. The cave walls glittered like stars. Moonlight glowed from the roof.

Oh, gracious king, Galen said, we offer our gift in the making of the dream. He held up a glittering gem on a gold chain. May it bring peace and prosperity to our realm. In return, we ask Valjar to grant us wisdom this year.

Rather than give the amulet to the high priest, Galen placed it around King Hakan’s neck. Galen stepped back. The Vale of Stars this night adds its will to the dream. May it be clear and bright in all that is seen and all that will come. The three wizards spread their hands as they tossed a blessing to the wind. The air sparkled around them, although no one else reacted. The sparks reached Magnus and went right through him to join the fire from the priest’s draught. He drew a startled breath but didn’t know what it meant. The climb had never been like this. What had changed?

King Hakan looked startled then glanced around but didn’t find what he sought. He spread his hands to the wizards. As always, your gift is welcome and accepted.

When the royal party turned to climb the stair, they found it dry and snow free. Was this the wizards’ doing or something else? It made the long climb bearable. Above them, the tower rose high into the darkness, a dim red glow at the top. Its base sat on a spur jutting from the Skalletberg’s steep slope. The stair stopped at a rock face with no door visible.

They climbed single-file into the night. On the landing below the tower, a greater darkness loomed to the left—a cave mouth. The priests came forward again and lit their lamps.

The high priest raised his hands in supplication. Here we pass from the waking world and those holding vigil to the world of sleep and dreams. Let none who fear the night enter here. Let those who wish to see enter the darkness.

He led the way into the cave.

When Magnus stepped inside, the damp rock-odor assailed him. Their footsteps echoed. Strange shapes danced in the lamplight around the edges, but men had smoothed the center. A wide, level floor allowed them to walk freely, and the ceiling had been made high so they need not duck. Against the far wall lay a dark, still pool. No water seemed to flow into it, but a trickle ran out and down. A pool here, so high on the mountain, seemed odd. Some said water leached down through holy, magic-steeped rock, ages after it fell as snow above.

The warm cave let Magnus throw back his hood. He loved this place and often meditated here.

Haug Prasta Ulf came to stand beside the pool. Drink now from the Drom Flood’s second source; then ascend to the heights and dream the dreams that will guide us for the year.

Starting with the king, the royal family knelt and scooped up water in the black stone bowl that rested at the edge of the pool. It had figures carved around the rim. Legend said Jerek had used this very bowl for the first dreaming. Again Hakan looked around, trying to find something. When Magnus’s turn came, last as usual, the bowl felt cool in his hands, and the water, icy in his throat. There the warm draught and the wizards’ sparks turned it to mist. Rather than obscure the insight from the climb, it augmented it. The world around him became the dream. He could see forever.

Ulf said, Climb now. Sleep and dream.

Magnus followed his family through the archway opposite the pool and up the stairs into the tower. The lowest level had been converted into an audience chamber. A spiral stair on one side led higher. The tower, built to watch for Paluan armies coming to assail the valley below, now held plush bedchambers. The king took the topmost room, and his children chose in birth order, Magnus lowest.

The stone walls and wood floor seemed unimportant. Compelled, Magnus laid down on the plain goose-feather mattress and linen sheets. In moments he slept.

2: Holy Dreams

Earlier, as the ceremony began, Damen Carlota stood beside her father on the Bergenfastning’s battlement with a hundred other people. She shivered as the wind cut through wool and furs. At the gap between the fort and the temple, token guards stood. The calm and reverent peasants watched the rite in silence. To the left, by the main gates, a bonfire blazed. Some would stand vigil the entire night, waiting for word of the dream.

After being at winter court a scant two weeks, Carlota hated the place. Why couldn’t they hold court somewhere civilized and halfway warm? She couldn’t stop her own pettiness. The kingdom wouldn’t exist without this ceremony, but she still didn’t like the cold. Haug Prasta Ulf emerged from the temple with the steaming cup. The crowd murmured excitement.

Next year, you ascend to the tower too, her father said, and one day, my progeny will rule Dendalen. He paced. After all these years, I’ll be in the royal family.

Carlota’s eyes sought out her betrothed, Prince Filip, as he waited to drink. Her father spent Carlota’s life like coin to join the royal family. She had been trained all her life for a marriage of advantage, and her father had found supreme advantage. Prince Filip, strong, smart, and ambitious, made her knees weak.

She’d tried to penetrate her tall, handsome betrothed’s heart, but she had yet to breach the shell. She would, she told herself. In their few meetings, he had been polite and quiet, waiting for her to find the man inside.

Carlota’s father, however, was so annoying. She rolled her eyes where he couldn’t see. The queen doesn’t make the climb.

Her father didn’t notice she’d even spoken. You will hear the dream firsthand and understand what the people will do with the knowledge. Perhaps you will even be able to invite me.

Carlota hid a grin. So predictable! He already had the king’s ear, or she wouldn’t soon be wed to Prince Filip. He wanted more; he wanted the chance to be king himself.

Still, a storybook marriage should be the first for both the man and woman, or so she’d imagined a few years before. Carlota had the crazy notion to sit with Filip’s first wife and ask if he’d made her feel like a princess. Not even the haug prasta could talk to the dead, though.

Carlota had been brought up to do this. She remembered some gossip she’d heard; Filip’s wife had never made the climb either. Had Prince Filip not allowed her to? Carlota laughed without mirth. I wonder what influence you’ll truly get. Do you think he’ll listen to me?

Her father chuckled and put his arm around her. I’ve waited so long for this.

A dozen emotions ranging from pleasure to disgust ran through Carlota. She wanted her father’s approval and respect. His arm comforted her. Yet he saw her as a pawn. He didn’t think a mere girl could play these power games. She wanted so much to prove him wrong, but she’d never get the chance.

The wind tugged at a lock that had escaped Carlota’s hood. A shout went up from the spectators. King Hakan broke through the snowdrift and stepped onto the path. Virile Prince Filip’s broad shoulders widened the gap. What would her life be like? What would she do with herself? How would it feel to have his arms around her?

The crowd on the wall started to thin as the royal family climbed above them, dark silhouettes against the snowy mountain. Her father offered to escort her down, but Carlota shook her head, so he went in alone.

Below, the crowds either left for the night or moved to the bonfire by the gates. The climbers would no longer be visible from there. Priests came out to lead the faithful in prayer and song. On the wall above the spectacle, Carlota realized this would be her life and she should embrace it. The icy wind buffeted her, but she removed a glove and placed a hand on the battlement. The stone felt cold and smooth beneath her fingers, well cut and worn by a thousand hands. Snow stung her palm then melted, running over the edge.

Carlota felt the rock resonate in her soul. The entire keep and the mountain beneath seemed to echo the king’s feet on the path. It trembled, anticipating the dream.

She stood in wonder, no longer cold. She’d known the Night of Dreams all her life but never understood the gravity and magnitude until she stood here on this night. In that moment, she understood something about herself, about being princess and queen, that her father never would. He believed in his own wits and power, while she also believed in the magic.

Carlota looked at the cathedral and lifted her fingers to forehead then lips, the sign of Valjar. She gave silent thanks for the revelation while inhaling the rock odor on her fingers and tasting the dirt. With a nod, she turned and went down to bed.

In her chambers below, her servant, Rufa, helped her out of her clothes. When Carlota crawled beneath the down quilt, she sighed once, rolled over, and slept.

Deep in the night, Carlota dreamed that she stood inside the Bergenfastning’s thick walls, as if she’d become a stone herself. She could see the signs of disaster looming. Whispers of dissent and rumors of war filled the hallways. People complained about poor trade and how the king did nothing. She watched it all collapse, but when she shouted, no one heard. How had she gotten inside the walls? Why couldn’t anyone hear?

Despair crept into her heart. She ran and yelled, to no avail. Exhausted, she sank to her knees and wept. Then a door opened. Light flooded the darkness. Someone reached out a hand. Rise, Damen Carlota. Come out.

Rather than take the hand, however, Carlota got up and walked back into the silent darkness, sure she could find her own way out. Besides, the walls felt comfortable. It felt like home. When the door closed and the light vanished, she knew her mistake.

Crying out, she sat bolt upright. As her blankets slipped from her chest and the cool air touched skin, she realized it had been a dream. She was not inside the wall.

Rufa leaped up and wrapped Carlota in her arms. Damen, what’s wrong?

Carlota clung to Rufa, breathing hard as fear faded and reason returned. A dream. Just a dream.

Oh, but dreams on this night are rare and blessed. All of them.

Carlota drew back from Rufa and looked her in the eye. Oh, I hope not. This was terrifying. I was stuck inside the walls and no one could. . . Her eyes grew wide. Rising, she walked to the window. All dreams were blessed this night, though not prophetic like the king’s. What did that mean? Rufa wrapped Carlota in a warm robe.

She and her father, as honored guests at the winter court, had rooms high in the main keep. Carlota looked out on the Skalletberg, covered in ice and snow. Faint fires glowed, drawing her eye up the mountain until it reached the tower.

The king lay there, dreaming his prophetic dreams. She shivered. No one listens to me, Rufa. No one at all.

You’re marrying the prince this week. Then everything will change.

Carlota reached up and put her finger on the cold, smooth glass, obscuring the tower where her future husband lay asleep. She could not wait to be sealed to him, so handsome, strong, and wise. He knew the value of silence, letting people come to him. She’d seen him do it to her father. Everything will change. Still, Carlota could not help but wonder at her dream.

She closed the shutters and pulled the drapes across the window. Together she and Rufa retraced the bedtime ritual. It had to be done, even if you got up in the night. First, they went to the door and traced the symbol of Valjar on the oiled surface—two concentric rings representing world and tower, with a hash mark top and bottom bisecting each circle, representing mind and soul. They repeated the symbol on the heavy drapes. Last they traced the sigil on the rough stone hearth, the fire warming their legs. With each step, their minds grew more at peace, the familiar ritual leading them toward slumber. Carlota dreamed no more that night.

FAR WEST ACROSS THE plains, in the city where the Drom Flood met the Rivo Modo, young Anton leaned against the bare wood wall, knees to chest. Wide eyed, he looked around the dark room. His mother and his sister, Sonja, breathed in sleep near him. The muffled sounds of the city, Riva Travess, came through the cold night, but the dream echoed through his mind.

He’d been so alone. He’d been fighting, stealing, and cheating. His mother wouldn’t let him do that. He’d turned around to look and screamed. All around him, dark fire had burned blue, green, and black. It ate into his skin and blinded him. He had to find the baby. He’d promised. He had to but he couldn’t find the boy anywhere. He groped around on hands and knees. Someone called from far away, but he couldn’t make out the words. He couldn’t find Sonja. He couldn’t find the boy. He couldn’t find his way out. He screamed and screamed as the pain grew.

Breathing hard in the tiny bedroom, Anton told himself it was just a dream. It didn’t matter. His heart said it did on the Night of Dreams. Even a poor kid from the Morros slums knew that.

Cold seeped through the wall into his back. Nothing threatened him, but the fear refused to fade. He rubbed his shoulder through his nightshirt.

His breathing slowed and the fear eased at last. When he thought he might be able to close his eyes without seeing the fire, he lay down and curled up under the blanket. He woke often through the night.

MILES TO THE SOUTH, where the Rivo Modo cut through the Barkullen hills, lay the Soderfastning and Sulporta, a trading town at the border where Dendalen met Palua. In a small house a little way from both fort and village, Kala stared out through the shutters in her loft. She needed to see out into the night. A cold breeze swirled in. All lay quiet as the waning moon shone on light snow. Houses dotted the little valley that comprised her world. No one she knew had ever dreamed on the Night of Dreams, but she just had.

She’d been riding a horse alone in the rain. Voices chattered all around, but when she looked, she found herself walking down a corridor in a palace. She was older in the dream, clearly an adult. In both places she’d been wearing pants too, like she did now, but she was a kid. Girls sometimes wore pants, but grown women didn’t. What did that mean?

In the dream, she’d moved among scenes as they blended together. In all, however, whether riding or walking, she had purpose and confidence. Voices spoke in the background, but she couldn’t hear the words or see anyone. Alone in the world, she acted on a stage where everyone could see her and she saw no one.

At last she rode over a rise and looked down into a valley with a wide stone plaza in the center. Around her rode people she cared about, but she did not turn to look at them. From the green stone ruins at the plaza’s edge, a stair rose into the sky. Kala shivered at the sight. She wanted to climb it and see what might lie at the top. Then she woke.

She had to tell her friends, and Mom and Dad. She imagined telling Ola, but Ola only talked about her nuptials. Soon she would wed a journeyman baker—starting a life kneading dough and baking bread. How would a holy dream make sense in that life?

How did it make sense in Kala’s life? Her parents might believe it, or they might not. No one had dreams on this night; no one had such a blessed, special dream. Why would Kala?

She took one more look at the snowy landscape. Closing the shutters and curtains, Kala made the symbol of Valjar there and at the ladder to her loft. She lay down. No one would believe her, so she couldn’t tell. For a moment she felt sad and lonely, but the dream reassured her. It had come for a reason. She would find out soon enough. In the meantime, she hugged herself and fell asleep with a smile on her face.

MAGNUS COULDN’T RECONCILE his own senses. He stood on a mountain in daylight, which didn’t seem right. A cold wind blew at his back, and miners murmured around him. He looked up and recognized the tree-covered Gronberg. The miners followed crumbled rock up the slope to a bluff then got out pickaxes. As soon as the first one struck the rock, Magnus turned.

Shepherds surrounded him.

They drove their sheep up the mountain into high, cold meadows. Behind, a ravening, dark shape bounded after. It took one goat after another until they reached a cold, harsh place where the beast could not come.

When Magnus turned to look at the beast, he found himself in the capital city, Riva Travess.

A boy prowled the Morros slums and a girl, almost a woman, wandered the streets behind the Segerplaz, both lonely and frightened. Yet inside each Magnus saw a spark somehow connected to Valjar himself and a woman inside the Ilyaforte. The woman wore a crown. In the future, people praised her statue. The spark led to a baby who shone like the sun. Then a cloud darkened the baby’s light.

Magnus turned and then he stood in the Vale of Stars among the wizards.

A fire burned blue, green, and black. It collected darkness rather than casting light. Whatever it touched died. The wizards faced each other as if in battle, but they acted like friends. A storm gathered over the steppes to the west. Lightning struck at a dark place there, the strange fire echoed in the cloud. The same storm threatened to chase the wizards from the vale and scatter them to the winds.

A wail drew his attention, and Magnus found merchants forlorn on their ships and barges laying at dock in the river. They beat their breasts as they looked south toward Palua. Men there taunted the merchants with gold and jewels, but the dry river marooned their boats. When Magnus looked up from the deck where he stood, he saw gold shining to the north, east, and west, gold there for the taking. He pointed that out to the merchants as birds squawked and squabbled over scraps on the pier, but the merchants cried and pointed south.

Magnus heard water splash against wood. He looked down to find himself knee deep in a flooded field. Yet all around him, the farmers sang as they harvested their bountiful crop. Magnus helped gather and sing until he turned around and found himself in the audience chamber in the Tower of Dreams. His father lay on the dais, struggling to breathe. The priests, wizards, and guards looked on in shock. Filip spoke. Magnus sat up in bed.

For a moment Magnus blinked. Where was he? Oh, in the tower. The dream echoed in his mind, needing to be told. The expanded awareness remained, and it fogged his thinking about here and now.

He rose and dressed. He had to find his father and warn him. He had to tell the dream. The slow, gray mountain dawn shone through the window. Far to the east, the sun had risen, but it would not clear the Skalletberg for hours. Overwhelmed by the vision of his father on the stone floor, dying, Magnus ran out and up the stairs without boots. The tower smelled musty and closed in.

When Magnus reached the landing, he found his father pacing, worried. King Hakan stopped. What is it, Magnus?

Magnus skidded to a halt. It sounded silly, faced with his live and not-so-happy father. Um, I had a dream. You were dying.

I am not dying. The king stopped and looked hard at his son. Tell me this dream.

The command felt wrong. Magnus had to tell the dream, but not this way. Not here. He shook his head and tried to clear it. He knew the ritual: the king dreamed and told the people. His father wasn’t the people, though. His father was king, so telling him made no sense. I don’t remember much . . .

Nonsense. You remember it all. Tell me.

Magnus looked at his feet. The wrongness remained, but his father—his king—had given him an order. He told the king everything, except the part about the two young people, the queen, and the baby. For some reason those belonged to him alone.

Magnus looked up again and found his father staring at him. Don’t tell anyone. Not now, at least. I will work out what to do. Go get dressed. We have an audience.

As he walked back down to his room, Magnus became more and more certain he should not have spoken. He’d never doubted his father before, not until last night. Now he didn’t know the man. He heard movement in other rooms as he passed, but no one saw him.

Back in his chamber, Magnus found new clothes laid out. They’d chosen black Svartberg wool, the falcon of the Jerekson family crest stitched in red and gold on the breast. He’d also been left a gold circlet to adorn his head.

As he recovered from talking to his father, the extended awareness faded. He wished it would stay. The urgency to tell the dream had not gone, however. He still had to speak.

Soon the king led the royal family down to the audience chamber. His children, Magnus, Filip, and Brigida, descended behind and stood back against the wall on the small, raised platform, awaiting the pronouncement of the night’s dream.

Oil lamps lit the circular room. A slight draft flowed up the stairs from the cave, mixing the smell of damp stone with the burning oil aroma. Banners depicted King Jerek, the first dreamer, and scenes from the conquest of the lowlands when his grandson had driven the Paluans out. The priests and all those who had stood vigil in the ice caves gathered in the chamber and sat on cedar chairs. Their expressions ranged from hopeful to frightened. The guards stood around the room, watchful.

Haug Prasta Ulf and the wizard Galen took out the Sansten, the Amulets of Truth. Holding the polished black stones bound in gold overhead, they spoke in unison. Let true words be spoken here.

The dream demanded Magnus step forward and speak but he hesitated.

King Hakan raised his hands. For another year Valjar has been gracious and granted the king his visions. First, the shepherds. You have grown too soft, and this is the source of the disease ravaging your flocks. Move the goats farther north and higher up, where the diseases will leave them, and their coats will grow thick.

Haug Prasta Ulf came to stand before the king, one bony hand on the amulet. Are these your dreams or another’s?

King Hakan drew himself up, face red. I am the king. The king dreams.

Ulf shook his head. The sadness in his eyes did not diminish his hard expression. Hakan, you forget yourself. Drommarna Torn was not given to us so that the king might dream, but so that the one who dreams would be king.

A gasp ran through the room. Magnus’s eyes grew wide. He couldn’t be king; he’d not turned nineteen yet. Besides, his father was king, and Filip would be king after. Magnus would be an adviser and perhaps a priest. He couldn’t be king. He couldn’t.

Now is not the time, Haug Prasta. Dendalen needs strong, experienced leadership. Strain tinged Hakan’s voice.

Ulf turned to the wizards. Mages of the Vale of Stars, who has dreamed this night?

Galen glanced at the other two, who muttered under their breaths. King Hakan, of course, Galen said.

Ulf raised an eyebrow. Another wizard shook his head. No, it wasn’t Hakan. It was him. He pointed at Magnus.

Galen’s brow furrowed in anger.

No! Filip shouted. It can’t be Magnus!

Excited chatter burst out across the room as Galen conferred with the other two wizards.

Magnus shrank back against the wall. He knew what would happen next. He’d dreamed it.

He reached out a hand. Father, don’t. No one heard.

Silence! Hakan roared. How dare you question my authority! I am king and Filip is my heir.

You have no more authority, Hakan. Be at peace, Ulf said.

Hakan’s face grew even redder. I will not be at peace. This is a . . . a . . . He blinked and clutched his left arm. Then Hakan collapsed to his knees. Magnus rushed to his side. Father! You have to give it up. I dreamed it.

Magnus’s father turned to him and stared, mouth open. He shook his head and sank onto Magnus’s lap. Too late, he whispered.

Father! No, no, no! This wasn’t happening.

Priests and wizards crowded in, laying hands on Hakan. Even though Magnus had dreamed, they still responded to Hakan as king. Old habits died hard.

Hakan looked up at his youngest son. With a mighty effort, he pushed those trying to heal him away and sat up. Hail, King Magnus! He fell sideways away from his stunned son. Brigida, having come up silently, caught Hakan so he didn’t hit the floor. Hakan choked once and stopped breathing. His eyes rolled up. The priests turned him on his back. The wizards muttered spells. Ulf’s hands glowed, but the light refused to take hold on Hakan’s skin.

Magnus pushed himself away until he sat against the wall, arms around his knees. His chest felt heavy and hollow at once. His lip quivered. This couldn’t be happening. He’d dreamed it, though. He knew the next part too, what he had to do. He just didn’t want to.

His father had been so strong, so sure. He couldn’t just be gone. Why would Valjar allow such a thing?

Ulf sat down next to him. I know this is shocking, but you must tell the dream. I felt the same when I became haug prasta after my predecessor died. You are wiser than you know, and your father has kept you close these past years, though not as close as Filip. All you can do is take one step and then the next. The rest will come to you in time. He laid a hand on Magnus’s head. Rise, my king.

Magnus looked up at his mentor.

A priest beside Hakan sat back on his haunches. He is gone. We cannot save him.

Other wizards and priests kept working, but the pace slowed. One by one they stopped, Galen last. They all looked around, bewildered.

Magnus saw the rest as clear as the dream. No one knew what to do, not one. He knew how to get them moving again. The dream still pulsed in Magnus’s head. He knew that much. He could get that far. One step.

Rising, Magnus brushed the dust from his clothes and wiped his face. The murmured conversations stopped. When he looked, he found the entire room staring at him. Unused to such notice, he turned first to Filip. I’m sorry, Brother. This was not my choosing.

What does it matter?

Haug Prasta Ulf got to his feet and stood beside Magnus. Few are granted what they desire. Often we are granted instead what we should have desired.

Filip looked at Magnus and Ulf in turn. He shut his mouth and said nothing more.

The priests and wizards had backed away from the body, leaving Brigida with Hakan’s head in her lap. She brushed back his hair and closed his eyes. You were supposed to notice what I’d done for you first. Now what do I do?

Help a brother who needs you. Magnus wanted to reach out to her but knew better.

Laying her father’s body down, she stood to look Magnus in the eyes. Huh! You would need help! Her voice lacked its usual sharp edge, and tears glittered in her eyes. First, be a king. She tilted her head toward the onlookers.

Magnus sighed and turned to the audience. He had no idea what he would do beyond the next few minutes, but this he had dreamed. He signaled to the guards and ran a hand through his hair. Take King Hakan, um, well, just to the cave, I guess. We will carry him to the Bergenfastning as we go.

Once the guards had removed the body, King Magnus studied the people. He could feel their fear and uncertainty as if their breath polluted the air with it. No one knew any more than he did what would happen now.

Still, the magic lent him strength and gave him the confidence to speak. For another year Valjar has been gracious and granted the king his visions. You miners look south to the Gronberg. You will find new veins there if you look hard enough. For the farmers there is little enough, but pay heed to the land and not the price of your crops, for without the land, there are no crops and no price. For years you merchants have looked south to Palua for trade and wealth. I do not yet know why, but if you do not look north, east, and west, your gold will turn to dust.

Magnus paused to consider Galen and the wizards. Had Galen lied about the dream? Or had he merely spouted the expected answer before thinking? The man would bear watching, but the king had limited power over the head wizard. Magnus stepped down from the dais and approached the three men. Wizards of the Vale, meditate this year upon your future, for looming ahead is your greatest choice. You teeter, balanced in the twilight, but soon you will either fall into darkness or ascend to the light. The choice is yours, but your balance is already in jeopardy.

Returning to the dais, Magnus said one more thing. Out there somewhere are two children. They will help bring about Valjar’s great and glorious plan in Dendalen, but hard will be their road. Magnus raised his hands and said the words he had heard his father say in years past. This is the dream at the turning of the year, in the first year of Magnus, King of Dendalen. Praise be to Valjar. Spread the tidings far and wide.

The new king stepped down, donned his cloak, and led those who stood watch down to the Bergenfastning for a feast and a funeral.

3: Slaughterhouse

Acold wind blew through the restless streets of Riva Travess. It shook the shutters at the rich merchants’ houses, flowed past the Ilyaforte on its island in the Drom Flood and whistled into the Morros slums. There it found cracks in the walls and holes in the roofs and the clothes people wore. It teased at the rotting garbage and tried to pull down the old timbers in the buildings until it found a boy playing Tvapunkt behind the Red Lips Inn. There it tipped the die as he threw so it landed beside the old snow pile with the single red dot face up like the second one beside it.

Anton whooped for show, but he hadn’t wanted to win that much. The three barge rats all groaned. These men guided the oxen pulling barges up the Drom Flood or Rivo Modo and never stayed long enough to cause trouble. They smelled of ox, stale river water, and beer, as if they hadn’t even taken a dip in the river before the drinking and whoring. That’s how Anton had picked them. One night wouldn’t empty their pockets. Still, if he limited his winnings, they wouldn’t feel cheated.

The three men cursed but handed Anton their silver kronas anyway. The last one gave him leather gloves too; he’d bet them.

Anton walked to pick up the dice and looked at the sky. He had to meet his mother now, but he couldn’t just leave. I should go but you guys deserve a chance to win this back. He bent down to grab the dice but misjudged.

What the hell is that? the black-bearded one said.

Anton looked. He’d dropped the third die, the unweighted one. He scooped it up and ran, but Black Beard beat him to the alley mouth. The barge rat grabbed Anton’s arm and spun him around. Anton fell to his knees. He tried to punch the man, but Black Beard grabbed Anton’s other arm too. As the other two men closed in, Anton bashed his head into Black Beard’s groin. When the barge rat doubled over, Anton shot up, crashing into the man’s chin. Black Beard crumpled to the ground, and pain exploded through Anton’s head. He couldn’t get a clear thought. He knew enough to run.

He charged out, past dirty snow and late patrons. He ignored the flowery scents of the brothels he passed and emerged onto the Cirkus, where the Morros met the Drom Flood river road. This early, wagons rumbled along the high road beside the river, and oxen pulled barges on the low road. Street vendors set up their wares. Beggars slept huddled in corners. No scents of perfume or food offset the sweat, garbage, and manure. Anton turned right and hugged the businesses pretending respectability. Footsteps and shouts rang out behind.

Anton took the next alley. He hurdled beggars at the entrance.

His mind came awake and he swore. He’d gone into Horseshoe Alley, which went around back to the Cirkus. He couldn’t do much but run on. The alley went around what used to be the auction house for slaves. For as long as Anton could remember, they had used the arena for fights—dogs, cocks, and people. Row houses, the best in the Morros, blocked escape on the other side. You didn’t barge into those without a death wish.

At the curve’s apex, Anton stopped. Footsteps came from both ways.

Anton looked around. Where could he go? The arena itself had metal doors here, but he doubted he could get through those. He looked up. There, above the doors, stood an abandoned tower—not a tall tower, two stories, maybe three. It had a window he thought he could get through if he could just get up there.

He backed across the alley. Footsteps came from both ways. Anton ran and jumped. He grabbed the ledge above the doors. His knees banged the iron bands. He bit his tongue to keep from crying out. Running feet beat closer. Anton swung his leg up. He pulled himself onto the ledge. From there he stood and reached the windowsill. As he scrambled up, the barge rats pounded down the alley. Anton froze with his elbows over the sill.

Where’d he go?

He didn’t pass me!

They looked around until one accused the other of letting him by. As they fought, Anton pulled himself inside. Dirt and leaves littered the floor; it hadn’t been used in years. Frightened pigeons rustled in the rafters.

With the barge rats fighting down there, he couldn’t go back down, but his mom and sister expected him at the slaughterhouse. He got up and walked around the room. Sure enough, the windows on the far side looked down into pens and cages. Anton decided his mom was right; this had been used for slaves. Animals didn’t require a watch room.

The room held a fireplace, some broken chairs, and a table. He didn’t find the stairs until his second trip around the room. The floor sounded different in one spot. Anton brushed the dirt away to reveal a trap door. When he pulled on the iron ring, it opened without a sound. Anton scratched his head and looked at the hinges. They had to have been mage-made not to rust. There must have been some money in the slave trade to afford those. Below, a tight stone spiral stair ran down into darkness.

With nowhere else to go, Anton walked down the steps. Descending into darkness, Anton stumbled when he finally came to a landing. When he recovered, he reached out for the walls and touched the cool, smooth stone until he found a door, but it was on the wrong side of the building. It would lead further inside the tower instead of out. He considered going in, but he needed to move. He groped on down the steps, even though he’d have sworn he hadn’t climbed that far up.

At the bottom, he couldn’t see anything, but he felt a door’s outline set in the stone, this time on the side leading into the compound. Anton glanced at the dim light filtering down from above, then back at the door he could feel but not quite make out.

He needed to allow his eyes to adjust to the lack of light, so he sat down on the step and closed his eyes. He couldn’t hurry this. His impatience warred with his need to see. After a few minutes, impatience won, and he opened his eyes. He could see the door. It had a lock mechanism, but how did it work?

He found a bar on each side. Anton assumed they slid back to allow the door to open. Something clinked when he shifted his feet. When he knelt to investigate, he found a key ring with three keys on it. There didn’t seem to be a keyhole on this side, so he tucked them in his sleeve.

Examining the door again, he found a lever. He pulled it first one way then the other. At length it moved, and the bars slid back. Smiling, he pushed the door open. It, too, had those special hinges and made little noise.

He blinked in the light before he could see the cages, empty this far back. Nodding to himself, he shut the door and considered the lock from this side of the door. It had a lever too, but this mechanism had a keyhole in the center. When he tried, the lever didn’t move. So he put the three keys in one at a time. The last one turned in the lock, and the lever set the bars in place. He might need a hidey-hole someday, so he put the keys in his money pouch.

Then he sauntered out through the empty arena, no one the wiser. When he emerged into the Cirkus again, vendors hawked their wares. More wagons came down the road. It couldn’t be that late. He turned east and saw the sun peaking over the buildings. His eyes grew wide. He ran toward the river road, eastward, away from the Morros.

As he crossed from the Morros to weavers’ territory, a man leaped out and grabbed his arm. Run! the man yelled. Run from your wickedness and sin! He wore a priest’s robes, and Anton could smell the incense on him. Most likely he spent all day praying. Valjar’s wrath will rain down on you if you don’t repent your evil ways!

Let go! Anton yelled. I have to go help my mother!

Your mother the whore! Valjar’s wrath will visit her too! A flame badge flashed in the sunlight. This priest was in the Order of the Nifikin.

Anton’s eyes went wide. My mother makes sausages! Let go! He pulled and struggled to get away, but the priest just held on tighter. Anton stopped struggling. So Valjar hates poor people?

Of course not! He loves everyone! But you have to repent your sins. If you had any willpower or discipline, you wouldn’t be here in the Morros. You’re a lazy sinner.

Anton cocked his head. Valjar’s love means calling people names and insulting them? Give me a job in the temple and a place to stay instead. Then I wouldn’t be a poor Morros brat who offends your dignity.

The priest shook his head. I don’t give jobs to sinners.

Anton rolled his eyes. Well, then, I have one thing to say to you. He kicked the priest in the shin and tore free as the man howled in pain. Anton ran. The priest yelled about sin and Valjar’s anger.

Dodging people and wagons, Anton headed up the river. Shabby houses and businesses gave way to warehouses and weavers. The people, too, grew less shabby and less dangerous, although the most dangerous in the Morros slept this early.

The stink presaged the tanners’ row before he rounded the bend. The stench drifted this far even against the wind. Beyond the tanners, the slaughterhouses waited, where his mom and sister gathered leavings. Anton hated this part of making sausages, but you had to get meat from somewhere.

Slowing to a jog, he tried to keep the stink from his lungs, but it didn’t work. Anton stopped for a moment to face the river to get some cleaner air. He despised this place, so he’d gone out gambling.

Gathering his resolve, Anton ran on. As he rounded a bend in the river, the stink grew. The stockyards and slaughterhouses came into view. Just beyond, the city and all Anton knew came to an end. Food animals weren’t allowed any farther into the city than the river quay here, which meant poor sausage makers had to carry their meat a mile or so.

The place his mother had them pick scraps sat just across the road from a quay.