Red Sails in the Morning: The Great Wyrm Saga, #1

By Victoria Osborne

In the east an ancient evil awaken. Two immortal dragons, Char and Cindar, stir from their centuries’ long torpor to seek vengeance on those who imprisoned them.

Levet, the daughter of prophecy, struggles with her own role to play as the dragons rise. She must journey through the lands of men and sylns to learn the way of the islands and their customs.

Jarvis, a human lord, rises in power. The human islands fall to his sword as he runs a campaign with ruthlessness and magic.

The first novel in “The Great Wyrm Saga,” is a broad sweeping epic that plunges peaceful islands into war and returns to power an evil so terrible that neither Sylns nor men can stand up to it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Azure Spider Publications
• Release date: Nov 15, 2016
• ISBN: 9780997462142

Book preview

Other Books by Victoria Lynn Osborne

Jason and Mortyiene Mysteries

The Student Librarian

The Bankers of Zurix

*The Priestesses of Levet

The Great Wyrm Saga

Red Sails in the Morning

*Green Tunics of Noon

Fire Mountain Chronicles.

Whispers in the Woods

*The House of Fire and Rain

Short Fiction

Murder on the River

Red Sails in the Morning

by

Victoria Lynn Osborne

FINAL AZURE SIDER LOGO 300 dpi.jpg

NOTE: IF YOU PURCHASED this book wihtout a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as Unsold and destroyed to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any parment for this stripped book.

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictiously.

RED SAILS IN THE MORNING BOOK ONE OF THE GREAT WYRM SAGA.

Copyright ©2016 by Victoria Lynn Osborne

Cover by Aidana WillowRaven

Maps by Victoria Lynn Osborne and Sue Schroeder

Published by Azure Spider Publications LLC

1051 NE Pepperwood

Grants Pass, OR 97526

www.azurespiderpublications.com

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016916941

ISBN: 978-0-9974621-3-5

ISBN: 978-0-9974621-4-2 ebook

First Edition November 2016

Printed in the United States of America

This book is dedicated to

Frances Osborne for her continued support

Acknowledgements:

So many people are involved in the making of such a book. I have to thank the Rogue’s Authors Guild, though they didn’t critique these pages they teach me so much. The Coin Pursuers, without them providing me a release valve for stress it would be hard to complete this book. Megan Blattel and Sue Schroeder for being my beta readers.  Sue Schroeder also helped me smooth out my maps and helps me get all of the pertinent stuff on it. A shout out to Red to Black Editing who did proofreading. Any typos or errors are mine alone. Aidana Willowraven for designing the cover. And of course my most profound thanks goes to my muse, a small tuxedo kitty named Jane, she always makes me laugh.

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Part 1:

It Begins

Mischka

Tamarah 1 Celestial Year 1051

The twinkle tells men they are protected.

-Brenna, Elder Star

Mischka knew it was going to be one of those nights. He stood on the small raised platform of The Blue Cod, a boisterous fisherman’s bar that faced the docks of the Strait of Isoner.

The three young nobles in the front row ignored him, grabbing the asses of the serving women who squeaked and dodged their hand as they threaded their way through the tightly packed bar.

"I sing of dawn

Long long ago

And times long gone.

Two dragons arose

From misty shores

And terror they did spawn.

Six wizards came down

A gift from the stars

And lifted their staves

And bound the dragons to their home.

But always look to the east

To the rising dawn star

When the smoke begins again.

This time it will fall

Upon the shoulders of a maid with silver hair.

She will carry the burden of a world fraught with pain

And drive the dragons home again.

And of what of the sylns,

Will they not play a part?

In the fate of the islands and the world

Give up the prince of the stars.

Let him join with the maid.

He will be her sword to his shield

His path will be marked in blood.

Together they will save the islands

And bring the Lord of Red down.

She will herald in a new age

One of truth and one of rage.

Seek now the signs from above

For the time is long foretold.

Assist the maid with the silver hair

And drive the dragons from our shores."

His fingers danced over the strings of his lute and his clear tenor cut through the worst of the noise.

He ducked as a mug flew at him, barely missing his head, and slammed against the back wall, splashing its contents down the rough-hewn planks of lumber.

Mischka bowed to the knight. Sir Daevisar, thank you for the drink, but Ewin has been kind enough to serve me some to wet my whistle.

Daevisar stood up and Mischka’s heart quickened. Daevisar was broadly built, and his muscles rippled under the satin tunic. His long, medium-brown hair was pulled back into a pony-tail that extended down his back. Mischka’s own slighter frame was dwarfed by the giant knight.

Mischka had purposely avoided the higher class bars to avoid confrontations like this. In the back-ground, the balding form of Ewin, the tavern owner, scowled in frustration.

Are you talking to me? Bard. Daevisar drawled.

Around them the fishermen grew quiet. They would not interfere with the knights, but they were unhappy. They muttered, their knuckles white, as they clenched their mugs in rage. Some of them rose and slunk out the door, not wanting to be a part of the upcoming fight.

A brief thought of how Daevisar would look naked flitted through Mischka’s mind, but he dismissed it. He bowed a mocking bow to the knight.

No sir. I was just saying that throwing the serving ware is hard on the economy of this tavern.

Daevisar’s friends, who were also well known in the community, rose up to join him. The three knights circled round Mischka and the stage. Mischka licked his lips and backed away.

Sit and enjoy the music. We are all friends here, Mischka said.

He gagged at the scent of cheap wine on their breath; he swallowed to keep from vomiting. The knights circled closer. I don’t want any trouble, sirs.

I think you should have thought of that before you played that song. A woman saving the islands. I think not. That song is treasonous on some islands.

Mischka bumped up against the back wall and held out his hand. But not here, he said.

Ewin coughed from behind the counter, wringing a bar towel. Sirs, he said. Please no bloodshed.

The knights stared at the pudgy bar-keep and laughed. Gren ruffled Mischka’s hair and took his seat again, pulling a bar-maid into his lap as she tried to pass him with a tray full of drinks. The bar-maid squeaked, managing to keep the tray up right and deftly stepped out of his arms.

Well sir knights, what is it you would like to hear? Mischka asked with a bow in their direction.

The Maid and the Pole, Feligar called.

Mischka ran his fingers along the neck his lute and turned the pegs, tuning it. It wasn’t that Daevisar, Feligar, and Gren were bad guys, they were just young and spoiled. He had to admit they were not hard on the eyes. Feligar had curly blonde hair and was the most easy-going of the three of them. Daevisar had a wicked quick temper, and Gren’s dark countenance always seemed so thoughtful, as if he followed a different vision.

Under different circumstances, Mischka believed that he might actually like them. They were here representing the king’s will in Isoner. Mischka had met Damba, the king of the islands of men, and had even sung the song of the maid in his court. Damba tried to be fair and honor the fishermen and the sea farmers, but if Mischka thought about it, all that could be said about Damba was that he did no evil. It was Tal Kurak and Jarvis’s domain that had Mischka worried.

Too long had the islands been at peace. People were forgetting the last war.

Mischka started to sing The Maid and the Pole. The knights slammed their fists on the table with the beat and even the fishermen were joining in.

He finished the song with a lute bridge and pushed it behind him.

I’m taking a break, he announced. He went to the bar to order something from Ewin when he felt a hand clapping on his shoulder.

You break when we say. We want to hear music. Feligar loomed over him so close that Mischka could smell him. His eyes traveled up the broad muscular body to meet Feligar’s blue eyes.

Listen sir, Mischka said, taking a long drink of his ale. I need a break; I have been playing for over an hour.

He ducked when the knight telegraphed his blow. The fist whistled over Mischka’s head.

Mischka brought up his left hand to block the blow and instinctively followed through with a right upper-cut. His fist found the knight’s chin, and Feligar’s lip split open.

Now you’ve done it, Ewin whispered, ducking behind the bar.

Daevisar was behind him and smashed a chair over Mischka’s head. Mischka staggered from the blow while Gren grabbed his arms and held him. Daevisar grabbed his other hand and Feligar loomed over him.

Hey, watcha doing? a gnarled fisherman yelled from the crowd. We was liking his playing.

A few other fishermen growled in agreement, glaring at the knights with growing hostility.

Anyone who helps him will be arrested. Feligar said. He turned back to Mischka. You ruined my shirt.

Mischka stared at his bleeding lower lip. The blood had splashed onto the knight’s fine tunic.

Do you know the law for striking a king’s man?

Mischka remained silent, held in place by the two knights. The fishermen in the bar watched.

The barmaids and Ewin were nowhere to be seen. The kitchen door swung on its hinges, a mute testament to the staff fleeing the scene—not that Mischka could blame them.

Feligar cocked back his fist and punched Mischka in the face. Mischka’s head rocketed back and blood filled his mouth, tasting of copper. Mischka’s heart raced in fear

I was defending myself, sir, Mischka said. A spray of blood flew from his lips and dotted Feligar’s clothing and face.

See here fellas, Feligar said to his companions. You saw it; he spit on me.

Daevisar and Gren laughed, holding Mischka between them. Even in the stink of the fishermen’s bar, the scent of expensive cologne warred with the smell of the sea.

Mischka hoped they would not break his lute. He hung there between them as fishermen started to leave the bar, having experienced enough fun for the day.

Should we run him in? Feligar asked the two other knights. For hitting a knight of the king?

Daevisar replied, If we do, you get to do the paperwork.

Feligar lifted up Mischka’s chin again and punched him. You’re right. No need to bother with the paperwork. Let’s just throw him out. We don’t need his kind of trouble in the tavern.

Daevisar and Gren tossed him out the door. Mischka landed on the street, making sure his body absorbed the blow. He ran his fingers over the lute to see if it was damaged. He whistled a sigh of relief to find it whole.

He staggered down the alley to the back door and knocked on it. One of the tavern maids answered the door.

I need my case and my cloak, please.

She disappeared into the bar. Mischka thought she was pretty for a girl, with curly golden hair and bright blue eyes. She returned a short while later with his lute case and a small sack of coins.

Ewin told me to give you these for what you did do. If it is any consolation, we do not hold you responsible. When those three get drinking...it is worse if Prince Erique is with them.

Mischka kissed her on the cheek. Thank you Romelia, and thank Ewin for me as well.

She nodded and giggled at his kiss. She always giggled at his kisses. He kissed the bar-maids a lot, but never followed through on it.

He slipped his lute into his case and the copper coins into his pouch, and headed down the back alley. His lip was swollen and bleeding where it had cut on his teeth. His vision grew fuzzy as his right eye swelled shut.

He made his way back to Main Street, his lute case slung over his back; he felt his eye and lip and ran his tongue over his teeth.

At least they are all there, he thought. He paused for a moment looking out over the Strait of Isoner. To the east, just below the horizon, was Forest Keep. Torkjial and Forest Keep were close enough at the north for a bridge. To the south, a three-day boat ride, was Mortas Delvon, the northern-most island of the sylns.

He stopped and looked toward the Isle of High Reaches. Coming toward Isoner were the red and white sails of a mercenary ship. Mischka watched as the carrack sped along the choppy waters of Isoner.

This is trouble, he thought. He kept watch over the ships and made his way down to the stable. Mercenaries did not normally come to Isoner, preferring the vast expanse of the Randa. Mischka counted the sails. Six, he thought, what has united six mercenary ships? Only Jarvis had the means to do that.

I need my horse, he said, slipping a couple of copper urchins into the stable boy’s hand.

Mischka stood at the door watching the ships. Could they be coming for her? No, no one takes the legends seriously, but still, I need to get her out of here.

The stable hand returned with his roan. The beast lipped his arm, looking for an apple or sugar.

Sorry old girl, not today. We have to ride.

Mischka swung up on the horse and left the stables. Down by The Blue Cod, the knights studied the fast-approaching ships.

The roan was not a smooth ride, and Mischka felt every step until even his hair ached. He urged the horse into a gallop as much to get away from the knights before they spotted him. They seemed intent upon the approaching ships, ignoring Mischka.

Jarvis, Mischka thought. If the prophecy was true. If his destiny was real. He would need to get her out. How had Jarvis found her? And why was he sailing now?

He thundered past the gate. The town guard looked up as he rode out. It won’t be long now, he thought as he raced down the road.

A short ways out of town, he pulled the roan to a walk. She craned her neck to eat some of the sea grass that grew along either side of the road. Like all roads in the Sapphire Islands, they were seldom used, and horses were rare. But the presence of Season Gulch Bridge had made the use of horses more practical.

Torkjial Isle was huge: two hundred miles long and one hundred miles wide. The Season Gulch Bridge was built to join it with the islands’ nearest neighbor and main supplier of wood, Forest Keep.

If Mischka kept up this pace, he would be in Seacrest in two days. He hoped that Jarvis did not realize the woman he sought was not in Isoner. Torkjial was a big island with many people on it. Surely a simple girl was beneath his notice.

He guided his roan off of the road as a company of soldiers approached him. The company pulled up next to Mischka.

A strange time to go riding, Master Bard, the knight captain said, raising his visor. Mischka groaned yet again.

Your Grace. I was just leaving Isoner for Seacrest. The knight clenched and unclenched his fists.

Two steps ahead of the law, no doubt.

Mischka kept his peace and let the knight speak. Lennen wasn’t like the younger knights. He was the king’s brother.

Your grace, I saw mercenary ships heading for Isoner and thought it was best I leave. They do not find my entertainment that interesting. Lennen laughed a hearty laugh. He slammed his fist into his thigh. You’re Master Mischka aren’t you? I have heard you sing in court.

Your Grace honors me with your words. Mischka pulled off his cap and bowed low over the saddle mantle.

You have a fine voice. But your face seems a bit bruised. Tell me who did this.

Mischka grimaced. He had hoped that his beating would not be noticeable in the starlight.

Just a tussle with some drunks. It is nothing.

The burly duke moved closer and peered at his wounds. That looks like a signet ring mark. Who did this, bard? Speak truly.

Mischka fidgeted on his horse. He was stuck. He wondered if he should stand by his story or if he should reveal to the duke who was responsible.Duke Lennen, sir. I would not cause any trouble. Please, your grace, let it go.

The duke swore under his breath. The stars damn them. Is it Erique’s boys? What’s their names? He looked over his shoulder to the men behind him. Daevisar, Feligar, and Gren; yes, that’s their names.

Mischka sighed. Yes, your grace. They were just a wee bit drunk and having fun. I guess I was convenient.

Lennen growled. I will deal with them. You were right, leaving Isoner is probably safer. Any word about what is up the road for me?

I just saw mercenary ships sailing toward Isoner. They were on the strait and heading for the harbor last I saw, right before I left town.

Lennen looked up, startled. I wonder what that is all about? The mercenaries keep going on about that girl and how she will destroy them. You know the story that a girl will rise to power over all of the islands?

Mischka nodded, I am familiar with that song, sir.

Lennen turned back to his company. Well men, we should return to our patrol. Stay safe, bard. I would hate to have anything happen to you on this road.

He rode for two more miles to put distance between himself and Isoner. He guided his roan off of the road and dismounted. His lip was swollen and pained him as he drank some watered down wine and built a small fire. He hunched down next to a log and pulled his cloak up over his head, closing his eyes.

Sleep overtook him and soon he was snoring. The roan was hobbled close by. The sun was full up in the sky when he awoke the next morning. He ate a hardtack biscuit that he soaked in water to chew. He ran his fingers through his mouth. At least none of his teeth were loose. Thank the stars for small favors. Was it possible that the mercenaries were not here for her?

He packed up his meager camp and mounted the roan when shimmering light softly lit the scrub trees around him.

Mischka dismounted and led his horse deeper into the scrub-blown area.

Serenty Isalan, Mischka said, spotting the old wizard. Isalan was taller than Mischka, with a long flowing beard and long flowing hair. He wore yellow robes, the same color as the sun.

The roan nickered and Isalan approached Mischka. The wizard offered the roan a lump of sugar and smiled.

Things are set in motion, Mischka. Soon they will turn and not be able to be turned back.

I have done as you asked. I have watched over her, kept her safe. Kept her innocent. She doesn’t know or understand.

Isalan looked out over the water. The mercenary ships were out of sight, probably docked at Isoner.

Smoke rises from Dragon’s Spire. Perhaps they are awakening. Though there have been many false claims before. Mischka, it is important. You must take her away. Already darkness moves against her. The first of them have landed.

Mischka sighed and sat on a convenient stump.

Why don’t you take her away? You are a wizard, you have power beyond anything that I have. Surly you can do more to protect her than I can.

Isalan’s soft laugh echoed through the scrub.

Mischka, my magic will not help her. It has been limited, cut off. I am nearly as weak as the children and the defenseless. We wizards lost most of our power during the last war. We bound it into... he trailed off. His brow furrowed in concentration. Where was our power bound?

Mischka remained silent. His hand touched his horse’s nose.

You can still travel instantaneously, anywhere. Perhaps you will whisk her away, keep her safe and one step ahead of Jarvis’s men.

No, I can’t, she must... Isalan clenched his staff and paced around. Our power is diminished. We can travel. But only ourselves. Perhaps our memories will be restored during the war. I only know that you must save her.

Do you even remember her name? Mischka asked.

No, the wizard whispered, once I told you who she was, it faded from my memory. I do not remember. Take her away, I know she is on this island. You must take her away—she cannot escape her destiny.

I know my duty. I will keep her safe while we travel. I will take her to... Mischka trailed off. No, I won’t tell you where I will take her. You will remember when it is time. Right now, I just need her safe.

Isalan stood by the log, looking at Mischka. He was frail and old, clenching his staff in his hand. Mischka turned his horse back to the road and walked down it to the small town of Seacrest. She was there, and he must get her off of the island before Jarvis found her and the wizards remembered her. He must get her to safety.

Levet

Tamarah 3 Celestial Year 1051

All fails before the will of Char.

-Blash, sorcerer of fire

P oppa, Levet called , looking up from her potter’s wheel. Am I doing this correctly?

Quespi walked over to the girl’s wheel, wiping his hands on his brown apron.

That’s very good, Levet. He smiled down at the young woman.

She was twenty-four years old and her pale silver hair was caught up in a braid that traveled down to her waist. She turned her gray eyes to the man and they sparkled.

Crispin, how is your work coming along? Quespi turned to the lad in the shop.

Crispin looked up from his own wheel. A plate, on the wheel, was balanced in beautiful perfection. He carefully painted a delicate leaf pattern onto it.

Quespi nodded his approval and went back to his own work. He had a request for a teapot to be made for Dionté and Wavah, the lead family of Isoner. The king had yet to award the nobility charter since the death of Lord and Lady Thames fifteen years ago.

Levet looked over to her foster father and smiled; returning to her work, she set a lump of red clay on her wheel. Working her foot back and forth, she turned the wheel. Taking water from a cup, she dribbled it on the clay. Picturing the cup, she molded the clay into the dish she was making. Pottery came easily to her. The creative energy flowed through her and touched all that she did.

She looked up and caught Crispin’s eye. He glared at her as he always did. She sighed and turned back to her work. Why did Crispin hate her so much?

She blew an errant strand of hair out of her eyes and looked out the window. She knew that Quespi and Dianora were lucky. Theirs was one of the few shops that had a window that big. A man stood across the street with a lute strapped to his back.

Her heart fluttered. Maybe her parents would let her go to the tavern. It had been a long time since a bard was in town and she was dying for news from elsewhere.

She lived on Torkjial in the tiny village of Seacrest. Her father’s pottery was famous all over. She turned back to her work and looked up again.

That bard was still there. He seemed to be watching the place. His brown eyes caught her gray ones and she gasped. He startled her and her hands clenched, wrecking the cup on her potter’s wheel.

Levet, pay attention. Stop dreaming and looking out the window, Quespi called out, seeing the cup ruined.

Sorry Poppa, I was just wondering if we could go and listen to the bard tonight at The Black Flounder.

What bard? Quespi said, sitting up and looking at Levet.

Him, Poppa. She pointed out the window at the bard standing across the street, studying the potter’s shop.

Quespi paled and jumped up. He knocked over a chair in his rush to the window. Outside, the bard tipped his cap to acknowledge the potter.

He flew out of the door and Levet, curious, along with Crispin, dashed to the window to watch.

Quespi stormed across the street. His fists clenched as he towered over the bard. The words were lost in the fierce wind that blew off the strait.

Who is that? Levet asked.

He just shrugged and returned to his own work of painting the plate.

Levet returned to her wheel and started the cup over again. She gazed, every so often, out the window, watching her father and the bard.

The bell over the door jangled. Levet got up to see to a customer who wanted the water pitcher displayed in the window. Levet took the silver eel and put it in the lockbox. Her father was still arguing with the bard.

Crispin looked up from his work.

Get back to your chores, Levet, or else Quespi is sure to tan your backside.

Levet smiled and flicked back an errant strand of hair. Quespi was a good man, and a good potter. He never beat his apprentices or his daughter, and Crispin knew that.

She sat back at the wheel and finished the plate. Finally her father entered the door and glared at the bard. He looked through the window one last time and left.

So Poppa, can we go?

I’ve got better things to waste my money on than listening to his songs, Quespi snapped.

Levet stared, her fingers trembling. Quespi didn’t yell often, and when he did, he scared her. Quespi stormed up the stairs to the apartment above the workshop. Crispin bent back over his work while Levet mindlessly continued to work on the plates.

She heard her parents arguing. Quespi and Dianora seldom yelled. The sounds muffled, she studied the ceiling, wondering if she should go up there and see what was wrong.

I wouldn’t, Crispin said. If they want you to know what is going on, they will tell you.

Levet, I need you to go out and gather the eggs from the henhouse and pick some peas from the garden, a woman called down the stairs.

Yes, Momma, Levet said, getting up and carefully putting her finished cup with the rest. She gathered her basket and went out back to the hand pump and washed her hands so she wouldn’t get clay on the peas. Dianora was usually not that testy, but whatever Quespi and Dianora were yelling about had set them both on edge.

She hummed as she took down the basket and went to the small garden in the lee of a shed that protected the delicate plants from the gusty winds that blew off the Strait of Isoner. Her nimble fingers found the peas and slipped them into the basket. She put that basket by the door and picked up the egg basket.

The chicken coop had a low ceiling that brushed the top of Levet’s head. The fat red hens clucked about her as she collected the eggs from under them. The big rooster eyed her, sizing up whether or not he could take her on. She scowled at him and continued to gather the eggs.

The chore didn’t take very long but the shadows were growing long over the water as she went through the back door to the shop and up the stairs to the living quarters of the potter’s family and his apprentice. Crispin had a cot by the kitchen hearth. Levet had her own room tucked up under the eaves.

She set the baskets with the peas and eggs on the counter. Quespi and Dianora were in the sitting area. Dianora was in her rocking chair, rocking back and forth. Her face was streaked with tears and her eyes were puffy.

I brought in the eggs and peas like you asked, Momma, Levet said, entering the sitting area.

With that announcement her mother burst into tears again, sobbing into her apron.

Quespi patted her knee, trying to comfort her.

Levet, come here, sit down. I need to tell you something.

Levet’s heart pounded as she went into the sitting room and sat on a three-legged stool.

It’s no secret that you are not our child. We adopted you at a very young age, Quespi started.

Levet leaned forward. They had never told her about her real family, keeping it a secret. They just told her that she was found as a baby and they adopted her.

You were brought to us when you were a child, by a wizard. His name was Isalan and he promised us you would be important. We have loved and cared for you as if you were our own.

She is our own, Dianora sobbed. She will always be ours.

Dianora, you know that she is not for us. We have loved you and raised you, and tonight you will have to make a choice. We will not force you to go if you do not wish to do so. But your time with us draws to an end. Isalan told us when he gave you to us that there would come a time when a bard would seek you out and give you the life you were supposed to have.

Levet’s eyes widened. Who were my parents, the ones that gave birth to me?

Quespi shook his head; I don’t know, and even if I did I’m not sure I could tell you. That bard you saw outside the window, he will be coming for supper tonight. Hear what he has to say, then you will decide for yourself.

Levet flung her arms around the potter’s neck.

I don’t want to go, Poppa. I want to stay here with you and Momma.

Quespi patted her back, clearing his throat.

It will be all right. You don’t have to go if you don’t want to.

Dianora wiped her eyes and headed for the kitchen hearth. Levet helped her chop up the onions and add them to the soup. The smells of cooking and fresh bread filled the tiny apartment. Quespi went downstairs and closed up shop for the night. Crispin put his head under the hand pump outside to wash the clay from it and dried his face with a flour sack cloth

Dianora looked out the window overlooking the street. Levet heard a merry whistle from outside.

Crispin, Dianora said, go let that bard in.

Crispin got up from his chair at the table and headed down the stairs.

Now remember child, you don’t have to go with him. You are welcome to stay here for as long as you wish.

Levet’s heart pounded as she heard Crispin’s heavy footsteps on the stair and the lighter tread of the bard behind him. She gasped in surprise as the bard and Crispin entered the small apartment.

Master Mischka, she gasped, her mouth an O of surprise.

At your service. he said, doffing his cap in an elaborate bow. You must be Levet. The songs don’t do you justice.

Songs? Levet giggled as blood rushed to her cheeks.

Dianora snapped the flour sack towel at her.

Now you stop your gaping. It is unseemly. She glared at Mischka, her fists on her hips. I don’t suppose you remembered to wipe your feet before coming in the door.

Yes ma’am, I sure did. Mischka had an airy way about him. He turned his brown eyes to Levet. Levet pulled her shawl closer around her, uncomfortable with the frank studying.

So you are the one of legend, he whispered, taking his lute out of his case. Do you mind, ma’am? I would sing for my supper.

Dianora paled and then nodded.

Mischka tuned the pegs, the sound of the gut string making a twang as it tightened. He strummed softly, then adjusted the pegs again. When the lute met his expectations for tuning, he cleared his throat and sang the prophecy song.

Levet had never heard anything so sad. Her eyes were filled with tears.

It can’t be me, she whispered. I’m not the one.

Quespi looked up from his place at the fire.

When Isalan brought you to my house as a baby all those years ago, we never thought we would fall in love with you. But we have.

It’s worse than that, Mischka said, setting his lute aside. When I left Isoner, mercenary ships were headed into Isoner harbor. Sir Lennen was patrolling the road. I ran into Isalan in the moors on the way here. He told me smoke rises from Dragon Spire Island. Jarvis knows that she is the one, and he is searching for her. He will find her sooner rather than later. Her hair color is so distinctive.

Levet twined the end of her braid through her fingers.

Where would we go? she asked.

The bard shrugged and ran through the scales.

Away. It has not been revealed to me. I would take us across the bridge and maybe hire a boat from Wood Harbor to take us to Starshrine.

Levet’s eyes brightened at the thought. Starshrine, an isolated monastery miles away from here. Where songs never died in honor of Eilor and Higor and the rituals they danced.

She looked over at the only woman she had ever known, who was gamely serving up soup in bowls and putting them on the table. Crispin had an odd look on his face has he took his seat.

Tell me more, Levet said, sliding into her chair. Why have you come to get me? Why not the wizard himself?

Mischka set aside his lute and slipped into the empty spot at the table.

The wizards are not as strong as they once were. Their magic has weakened. Even appearing on this island alerted Jarvis that he was there. If he had come here, he would have led the mercenaries directly here. Mischka blew on his soup and then put a spoonful in his mouth. Mistress of the house, your soup is excellent.

Dianora snorted and turned back to her own soup.

Is this true Poppa? Am I the one from the song?

Quespi sighed and folded his hands on the table.

You are our daughter. We got you when you were a baby. At the time, we wanted a child and couldn’t have one. Isalan told me that one day a bard would come and you would do great things, but you needed to be kept safe. So we raised you as our own. Now he is here. Quespi gestured to Mischka. I am sure you will do great things.

Well this explains why she is such a lousy potter, Crispin quipped, shoveling down his own bowl of soup.

Crispin, Quespi growled.

Sorry Master. The other apprentice turned back to his bowl of soup.

Levet finished her meal in silence. Around her, Mischka was entertaining her parents and Crispin with tales of courts and taverns high and low. Her soup and bread had lost all taste. Could she leave? Her gaze fell upon her parents and she looked back down.

She caught Crispin glaring at her once again. He was always mean, so she stuck her tongue out at him and then chewed on her lip. Her teeth raked along her lip as she gazed out the window. The sun set over the island, painting the sky in a panorama of orange with red and crimson. She arose and gathered up the bowls from the dinner and took them to the sink to wash. The hot water felt good as she cleaned the bowls and plates. The alarm bell jolted her out of her reverie.

Mischka sat bolt upright and Quespi jumped to his feet. The town crier called out a warning.

Soldiers approaching the south gate.

Mischka grabbed Levet’s hand.

Come on, we need to flee. If you stay, they will die.

Dianora hugged her closely. You will always be the daughter of my heart, but he is right. You need to flee and you need to do it now.

Footsteps thudded on the walk in front of the shops.

Dianora stuffed some clothes into a pack and wrapped up a loaf of rye bread along with a cold chicken.

Take these child, run. The master bard will protect you. Vella Rioll willing.

Mischka had thrown his lute back over his shoulder and stood by the stair, shuffling from one foot to the other. Crispin sat at the table, watching the goings on. Quespi ran out of the house and down to the town gates.

Levet hesitated, her eyes taking in the small dwelling that had always been her home. She shouldered her pack and hugged her mother good-bye.

Mischka took her hand and they ran down the streets to the livery. Mischka mounted his roan and with a silver eel bought a silver mare, the only horse available for sale, for Levet. They swung into the saddles and urged their horses into a run through the northern gate.

They crested a hill that overlooked Seacrest and Seacrest Marsh. A line of soldiers wearing leather stretched out from the southern gate of Seacrest toward Isoner. A knight, who could only be Sir Mor, lead the column.

Jarvis, Mischka hissed between clenched teeth. Those are Jarvis’s men.

Jarvis, Levet turned her horse, standing in her stirrups to get a better view. Why is he so interested in me?

Because of who you are. He assassinated your parents when you were a child. Isalan himself sent you to foster with the Allday’s. We must make haste.

An arrow thumped into a scrub tree.

Scouts, Mischka cried, and spurred his horse onward.

Levet bent over the cantle of her mare and urged her faster. The men broke off their pursuit and returned to Seacrest.

How long do you think we have before they know I am gone? Levet asked.

When Seacrest dropped out of sight, they slowed their horses to a walk. Levet’s mare was winded, and Mischka’s roan was not much better off.

Mischka stopped his horse and looked at her.

That all depends upon how much Crispin tells them.

Crispin? Levet dropped her reins in surprise. What does he have to do with it?

I don’t know, but he has the look of someone who is not content in his current situation. That he has been promised more. I have known the Allday’s for many years, and I know they would never betray you.

Levet chewed on her lower lip.

Won’t the scouts report that we got away?

Mischka grimaced. He already knows. I just hope he doesn’t put it together. We need to get off of the road.

Mischka guided the roan off of the road. The windswept brush and scrub trees didn’t give them that much protection from the road.

How well do you know this area? Mischka asked Levet.

She shrugged and looked around, trying to get her bearings.

Over there is a peat cutter’s trail. I have walked it. It will cut through the swamp and we should be out of sight. It is not commonly used.

Mischka motioned for Levet to lead the way. The further from the coast, the taller the trees grew. They dismounted and led the horses down the faint path that wove through the peat bogs. She gazed back at her home and rested a hand on the mare’s nose and leaned into her neck. Tears streamed down her cheeks and she sniffled. Would she ever see Quespi and Dianora again, she wondered.

Come on, I need to get you to Wood Harbor, Mischka said.

A bright light shone in a secluded glen. Mischka veered off the path and walked into the glade. An old man sat there next to a sparse fire. He fed it twigs. Levet opened her mouth. It was one of the high wizards. She had heard legends about them.

Sit, child. He looked up from the fire, studying her. You are still young. Did you have any trouble, Mischka? he asked her companion.

Mischka shook his head; We left Seacrest before Jarvis’s mercenaries got there, but just barely. I took back paths. I should have known you would know where to look.

Um, who are you? Levet asked, sitting on the same log that the old man sat on.

Levet, may I present to you Isalan, the oldest of the wizards of his order, and your benefactor.

The wizard chuckled. I have not had that kind of power in nearly a thousand years. There was a time when the very animals themselves would come to my call. I could banish demons with a single word, but alas, that power has not flowed through me in aages. I do not remember much of those times. Now I am an old man that wanders the islands searching...

Searching for what, Serenity? Levet asked. She leaned forward on her log to hear the answer.

I do not know. Isalan took out a small kettle from his pack and filled it with water from a hide bag. He put the kettle into the fire and took out a small teapot. He spooned in a couple of spoonfuls of tea and leaned back, waiting for the pot to boil.

Everything is more civilized with tea, he explained.

The water boiled in the kettle and he fished it off of the small fire and filled the teapot. He poured three cups of tea and handed one each to Mischka and Levet.

I’m sure you have a lot of questions, child. And I will try to answer them.

Levet stirred her tea and took a sip. The hot brew helped her fight off the chill as the night deepened.

Who were my parents? she asked. I always knew they had adopted me, but they never told me who my biological parents were.

Isalan smiled at the girl. His eyes twinkled in the fire light.

She doesn’t know yet? he asked Mischka.

Mischka shook his head. I was just able to sing the prophecy song when Jarvis’s mercenaries marched into Seacrest. I had not had time to tell her who her parents were.

Isalan turned back to Levet. You are the daughter of Krys and Heather Thames, the last lord and lady of Isoner.

I thought the lord and lady of Isoner were Dionté and Wavah? Levet said, finishing her tea.

Isalan shook his head. No, they were. After your parents were killed by Jarvis’s knight, Sir Mor, Damba appointed them to be wardens of Isoner. The old man leaned closer to Levet. The city is yours.

Mischka got up and left the fire circle. I need to make sure we weren’t followed, he said.

Isalan waved him off. He turned back to Levet. So now I need to tell you what you are. You have heard the prophecy song—the one that tells of the silver-haired maid who will overthrow the Lord of Red. That refers to you. Jarvis Quan is the Lord of Red. His ships’ sails are red, and his men wear red tabards. But what Jarvis doesn’t know is that you will not march against him. Your path is different. You will win... Isalan trailed off, studying Levet closely. You will win by bringing hope. Already he marches, looking for you. He will, in turn, march upon those whom he perceives are aiding you. You will become a symbol. Provided you live through it.

I always thought I was just a girl.

Until today, you were. But now your path has changed. Isalan reached into his pack and drew out a book. You will find that the land itself will support you. Mischka has told you that you need to go to Wood Harbor. I fear your way is treacherous and you are not given any great power. If you die, well, the world won’t end. Maybe even someone else will succeed, but the prophecy does speak of you. To that end I give you this book. Study it, learn from it. You will have strangers give you tasks and duties. With each task you complete, you will find the land a bit more responsive.

But how am I supposed to stop Jarvis?

Isalan sighed and leaned forward. I don’t know. I don’t know if you are supposed to or if something else will stop him. I do not know; I just know what the prophecy is, same as you, that the prophecy says you will overthrow the Lord of Red. How you are supposed to do it? Well, that is your job to figure out.

Isalan rose and bent over to retrieve his pack and collect his staff. I wish you well, Levet. Read that book and take it to Ryeland when you are done. He is a sorcerer of great power. I would not make that journey too quickly, as his loyalties at this moment are counter to your own. But I have seen that he might be having a change of heart. Isalan drew out a sword. He slipped it out of its sheath and then slid it back in. You will know whom to give this to when you find him. I have just one more gift for you. This staff...

The air swirled. Blue stars sparkled in the late afternoon sun. Levet saw the stars winking into sight on the eastern horizon. A clear melody of music descended from the celestial bodies and formed into a staff of dream wood. The staff was intricately carved with a deep purple gem set into the eight-pointed star head. Isalan gave her the staff.

This is yours: Use it well, use it wisely, and above all else, use it often.

With that he opened his arms to the sky and a beam of pure starlight bathed him in glory. Stars swirled around him, and with a celestial song, he ascended into the heavens.

Levet watched him go. She strapped the sword about her waist and slipped the book into her pack. Mischka came back with a brace of rabbits and sat at the edge of the fire cleaning them.

Wizards, he muttered, as he cut up the rabbits and skewered them on a stick. They always leave me with more questions than answers.

Levet sat down next him and ran her fingers along the staff. Wizards indeed, she thought laying her staff to one side.

Erique

Tamarah 2 Celestial Year 1051

Seek not the wisdom of the star, put your faith in men.

-Kyrs Thames

Erique groaned and pulled his pillows over his head as Tzevi opened the drapes to his bedchamber.

Your highness, Tzevi said, you need to get ready. It is time for the hunt. You asked me to wake you in time for it.

Erique smacked his lips, his mouth full of cotton and tasting like dirty hose. Stars burst in his vision as he opened one eye to contemplate the clear, sunny skies.

"Lay out my green hunting clothes. Not the nice ones with embroidery, but the leather ones that are more practical.

Tzevi sniffed. Are you sure, your highness? Surely you want people to see who you are.

If they do not know who I am by now, they will never figure it out. Last time I wore green silks on a hunt, I was thrown from my horse and I ripped them. I will wear the hunting silks tonight at the feast. But for the actual hunt, my leathers should be more than sufficient.

Erique pulled himself out of bed and headed for the chamber pot. He ran one hand through his shoulder-length dark brown hair and blinked, trying to moisten his eyes. He staggered over to the wash basin when he was done urinating and studied himself in the mirror.

I have definitely been up too late, he thought, studying his bloodshot hazel eyes. He returned to his bedchamber and sat at the foot of the huge four-poster bed with heavy burgundy curtains. He glanced over at the other side of the bed; it was rumpled, but empty. He cocked an inquisitive eye at Tzevi.

What happened to the bitch?

The lady had another appointment. Tzevi took Erique’s leather hunting clothes from the wardrobe.

Erique pulled on fresh small clothes, adjusting himself to the left. He slipped into the soft doe-leather breeches and a soft linen shirt. After the shirt came a close-fitting vest made of the same soft leather as his breeches. He laced up the front of the vest, sat on the bed, and pulled on a pair of soft tan leather boots.

Tzevi turned to Erique.

What would you like for breakfast, your highness?

Bread, cheese, and fruit, and stop yelling or I will find someone quieter. Erique staggered over to the table, running his fingers through his tumbled hair. He gazed at the high, craggy range of the Torkjial Islands. The citadel of Torvald was on a high pass and commanded a 360 degree view of the island.

He studied the great walls that were built along the treacherous mountain paths during the last battle when the dragons awoke and cloaked the island in darkness. King Rhyce Setchell had been the king the last time the dragons awoke. It was said he killed the dragons and they would never arise. The prophecy song was written after the last battle. It was inspired by the stars and spoke of yet another war.

Erique sighed as Tzevi brought him his breakfast. Erique broke his fast while Tzevi straightened his bed and checked Erique’s bow, making sure the string was not frayed.

Erique took one more look over Isoner, noting a few striped sails in the harbor, and frowned. Was it possible his father would be having company? He shook his head, slung his bow across his back, and strapped on his sword belt.

Your highness, Josue the stable hand said as Erique strode into the courtyard.

My horse, make it the black, Erique snapped. And be quick about it.

Josue nodded and ambled back into the stable. He was a mammoth of a man and didn’t move quickly for anyone.

Erique fumed as he peeled an apple, watching the various peasants go about their morning chores. That man never moves fast enough, he thought.

The nobles had gathered in the courtyard by the time Josue saddled Erique’s big black stallion.

You look like you have seen the underside of a barrel, a voice spoke from behind him.

Erique whirled and saw three knights leaning against their own mounts. He roared with laughter.

Your eyes are just as red.

The four friends moved together and clasped hands. Daevisar was the best-looking knight in all Torvald. His straight brown hair swung to the middle of his back. He was clean shaven with deep brown eyes. Erique gritted his teeth as jealousy flared in him. Why doesn’t Daevisar look like he has spent the night drinking? Erique wondered. Even when Erique let the women of the bars know that he was the prince, they still fell over Daevisar. This morning was no different: Despite the hung-over appearance of the other two knights, Daevisar looked pulled together.

Feligar and Gren had the grace to look as if their night of drinking had affected them. Feligar’s curly blonde locks were lank and greasy, his eyes puffy from lack of sleep; whereas Gren’s black hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail.

The master of the hunt winded his horn. Feligar, Gren, and Erique winced at the early morning bugle. The beagles strained at their leads and barked a mournful howl.

Erique climbed into his saddle, whispering to the horse to go easy on him that day. The black stallion snorted and tossed his head, jingling the reins. Great, Erique thought, he is going to be a challenge.

The hunting party rode through the gates, banner flying, with the kennel masters leading the dogs. It wasn’t long before the dogs picked up the scent. The kennel masters let them go and they bounded through the brush and trees, their white tails leading the hunt.

A cry went up from the hunting party as the men let the horses have their heads. A fox sprinted in the distance, leaping over hedges, the beagles hot on its heels. Erique spurred his black horse faster. Blood rushed through his veins, in time with the pounding of his heart.

The land blurred as he raced by. He outdistanced the other hunters, flying behind the hounds as they ran down the fox. The fox darted to and fro, trying to escape the nimble-footed dogs and the pounding horses.

The dogs finally trapped it, surrounding the bush. Erique rode up and thrust his spear into the thicket. With a yelp, the fox died. It was a clean kill and the pelt was still useable. The huntsmen rode up and took the fox from the prince. Erique remounted his horse, the hangover fading to a dull throb.

Find me a boar, he yelled to the master of the hunt.

As you wish, your highness, the master bowed over his saddle. He blew a horn and the hunt moved on.

Boar! the kennel master called.

The beagles sniffed along the trails, looking for the right scent.

Erique dropped back, riding with Daevisar, Gren, and Feligar.

Why are there mercenaries in Isoner? He slowed his horse to a walk. The thrill of the hunt coursed through his veins.

Don’t know, we were at the Blue Cod when the ships landed. That bard sure took off in a hurry, Daevisar replied.

A howl went up from the hounds and they were released.

Come on, let’s ride, Erique said, spurring his horse into a run.

The boar ahead crashed through hedges and bushes, the hunt closing on it. Erique charged, his spear couched against the cantle of his saddle.

The boar wheeled and regarded Erique with small angry red eyes. Erique leapt from his saddle. The dogs howled, circling the brush. The boar squealed, pawing the ground and swinging its tusks.

Hai! Erique called.

The boar charged, its tusks low to the ground.

Erique planted the spear and braced the butt into the ground. The boar charged, its wild cries filling the air. It impaled itself on Erique’s spear and blood fountained from its mouth, drenching Erique.

Erique struggled to hold its weight and then sank to a knee.

Well done, your highness, the master of the hunt said, sliding from his horse.

He took a knife and cut into the boar; pulling out the heart, he gave it to Erique.

Erique bent over the heart and took a bite from it. Raw blood ran down the front of his jerkin and the crowd applauded. Erique wiped his chin with his sleeve and held up the still steaming heart for all to see. A cheer filled the glade and Daevisar along with Feligar and Gren dismounted and clapped their prince on the back

Erique took his wineskin and passed it around with his friends.

So you were in Isoner the other night. Why were there so many mercenary ships? Erique asked, taking a swig of wine.

A fourth knight joined them: Well done, your highness, He said, saluting the prince.

Thank you, Erique said. Do I know you, sir?

No, sir. I am Herne, my father is Beltidar Warden of Moon Hill. I just arrived at court the other day.

Erique smiled and clasped hands with him.

Welcome to Torkjial Island. I hope you time here will be well spent. This is Daevisar, Feligar, and Gren.

The new knight clasped hands with them all. His curly red hair flowed in the wind.

I heard you saying that mercenaries have landed at Isoner, your highness, Herne said. His eyes were serious as he looked at Erique.

What have you heard about this?

Same as your highness. The song of prophecy, Herne replied, leading his