Phoenix Descending: Curse of the Phoenix, #1

By Dorothy Dreyer

***SOLO MEDALIST WINNER of the 2018 New Apple Summer eBook Award for Excellence in Independent Publishing***

 

Who must she become in order to survive?

Since the outbreak of the phoenix fever in Drothidia, Tori Kagari has already lost one family member to the fatal disease. Now, with the fever threatening to wipe out her entire family, she must go against everything she believes in order to save them—even if that means making a deal with the enemy.

When Tori agrees to join forces with the unscrupulous Khadulians, she must take on a false identity in order to infiltrate the queendom of Avarell and fulfill her part of the bargain, all while under the watchful eye of the unforgiving Queen's Guard. But time is running out, and every lie, theft, and abduction she is forced to carry out may not be enough to free her family or herself from death.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Snowy Wings Publishing
• Release date: Nov 28, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386997399

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

THE DOGS BOUNDED FORWARD with purpose, their snarls and angry barks sharp echoes in the winter air. Bramwell struggled to keep up with the group. He was lucky to be invited on the hunt at his young age, and it would do no good to disappoint his uncle. If he fell behind or complained, he might not be invited again.

Look alive, Bram, Logan called from yards ahead. Your legs are long but weak.

Bramwell bit back a sneer and pumped his legs harder, righting himself as his feet threatened to slip out from underneath him.

Careful, Logan said with a smirk. You don’t want to fall into the Rift.

Bramwell expelled a curse on labored breath as Logan—his lifelong friend—picked up speed, his laughter pricking Bramwell’s ears. Of course he wouldn’t be so foolish as to fall into the Rift. Children’s nightmares were made up of the creatures who dwelled there—the Undead—who endlessly trod the dank and grimy dell that served as a border between the Queen’s city of Avarell, the forest lands of Drothidia, and the mining country of Khadulan. Bramwell had never seen an Undead, but he’d heard the stories. There was even tell of children who had wandered into the Rift, became trapped in the gullies, and were either feasted upon by the creatures or became infected from the bite of an Undead and turned into one themselves.

With a shudder, Bramwell ran faster, his bow laced snug around one shoulder and his quiver of arrows strapped to his back. At least his uncle had trusted him to handle the weapon. How proud he would be of Bramwell should he take down a deer or a wolf. They wouldn’t be laughing then. They would celebrate him. And all the praise in Bramwell’s name would wipe that impish smirk clear off Logan’s face.

There was a turn in the path where it split in two, and Bramwell hesitated. He could no longer hear the dogs, and there was no sight of the others on the hunt. Which way had they gone?

Bramwell looked to the sky, attempting to determine his direction based on the location of the sun. He studied the dirt on the paths, but both trails were equally kicked up. There was no telling which one the Queen’s Guard had taken. A flutter of leaves up ahead on the path leading left caught his attention, and he took it as a sign.

He dashed forward, his jaw tight. Logan would never let him live it down if he were to get lost. Thirty seconds into his run, the path narrowed. Thirty more seconds, the path dwindled into nothing but a dead end. Heat flooded his cheeks and neck. He’d chosen the wrong path. Adjusting the strap of his bow, he turned on his heel and ran back the way from which he came.

The harsh shadow of wings suddenly swooped through the air before him, causing him to skid to a stop. A shriek so loud he had to cover his ears resonated through the woodlands around him. Spotting the huge bird, Bram ducked in fear. A phoenix. It was rare to see them in Avarell, but here, on the border of the Rift, it was not uncommon. He’d only seen a few in his sixteen years of living, but never one this close. Recent word was the birds were now contaminated with some kind of disease, and phoenix fever was rumored to be spreading through Drothidia. There were no reports of the epidemic reaching Avarell. In fact, many claimed that the rumors were not true.

The phoenix swooped in an arc and landed on a nearby tree, its orange-gold feathers ruffling as it clasped onto a branch with its sharp talons. Bramwell stared at the glorious creature, and he could have sworn it was staring back. It didn’t look diseased. On the contrary, it was quite stunning. The bird cocked its head to the side, and then it spread its wings and dove from the branch. Bramwell gasped as he realized the phoenix was headed straight for his head.

He moved swiftly, side-stepping as he crouched, but his foot caught some ice, and he was propelled farther sideways. He landed on his arm, but the snow beneath him gave way, and Bramwell lost his breath as he toppled down into a ditch beside the path. His head caught the bark of a tree on his way down, and the snow that fell with him clouded the air, but his journey wasn’t over. This wasn’t simply a ditch; the ground here had eroded to a sharp drop. His body rolled farther down, his arms and legs connecting with rocks and branches on the way. His arrows spilled around him, and the string from his bow cut into his shoulder. He landed in a gully with a thud, the air knocked out of his lungs and his ankle throbbing.

At first, he couldn’t move; he simply lay there attempting to catch his breath. As blood from the cut on his head slowly streamed beside his eye, he knew he had to get up. He was in the Rift. And it was only a matter of time before the Undead would smell his blood.

He winced, struggling to pull himself to a sitting position. Fog drifted over the snow in the gully, obstructing his view. He looked upward, trying to see where he had fallen from, and more importantly, if there was a way to climb back up. Latching his hand onto a nearby branch, he pulled himself to his knees. But the movement sent firebolts of pain into his ankle. He dropped back onto his bottom, sucking in a breath to keep from screaming. Noise would only attract the creatures in the Rift.

He scooted forward on his backside, using the nearby foliage to get him closer to the embankment. But everything he grabbed on to came loose from the earth and snow, until he sat there with handfuls of twigs and roots but had made no progress.

A branch snapping behind him made his head swivel around. He held his breath, searching the foggy surroundings for movement. The sound of heavy, ragged breathing and dragging of feet caused his heart to thrash in his chest. Every muscle and nerve in his body went rigid as the form of an Undead appeared through the mist. At the sight of its gray pallor, empty eyes, and the way its decaying mouth hung open, Bramwell wanted to gag. The monster drew nearer, and Bramwell fought to untangle the bow from his body. His hands pounded against the ground, fingers searching for one of his lost arrows. There had to be one nearby. His mouth went dry as the Undead dragged itself closer still.

With no luck finding an arrow, Bramwell held the bow firmly in his hands, resigning to use it as a weapon. If he struck the creature hard enough, he might be able to kill it—or at least ward it off.

Bramwell’s breaths came in sharp bursts as the Undead reached for him. He held his bow at the ready, but it shook as he trembled. The monster swiped his hand out, grabbing the other end of the bow. Bramwell wanted to scream, but he clamped his mouth tightly shut and yanked the bow back to himself. The creature was strong and pulled at the bow again. Bramwell couldn’t pry it away from his attacker, and his heart felt as if it was going to explode.

A swift hiss sounded, and the Undead let go of the bow, his body bent to the side. Bramwell’s jaw dropped when he spotted the wooden shuriken—a weapon some called a Throwing Star— embedded in the creature’s temple. The Undead let out one last moan before it crumpled to the floor.

Too in shock to track the movement around him, he found himself being dragged backward from his chest. He glanced down, noticing delicate hands of a female wrapped around him. Whoever she was, she was strong. She dragged him farther until he was hauled into a dark place obscured by hanging branches. The small cave was cold and wet and smelled like rotting leaves.

As his rescuer set him against the wall of the cave, Bramwell finally got a look at her. Though the light was dim, there was no missing the young girl’s eyes. The exotic slant of them told him she was Drothidian. She was petite, and Bramwell measured her to be about fourteen. Her wrists and ankles were wrapped in tight cloth, her tunic and boy’s trousers a green hue that matched the woods, and her black hair was pulled into a knot. He watched her, amazed that this tiny person had the strength to drag him to safety.

Thank you, he said.

She held a finger to her lips, signaling for him to keep quiet. She didn’t smile, and she didn’t look at him longer than she had to. Bramwell sat in stunned silence as the girl reached outside the cave and gathered a handful of snow. She crouched down next to Bramwell and slapped the snow against the wound on his head. Only when he winced and let out a slight whimper did the hint of a smirk fly across her mouth. But it was gone as quickly as it had come.

Where else are you hurt? she whispered.

Though taken aback by her voice, he pointed to his leg. It wasn’t the only place he ached, but it felt the worst of his injuries. My ankle.

Without hesitation, she withdrew a dagger and ripped back the leg of his trousers to expose his ankle. The skin was red and swollen, a laceration exposing blood and flesh. Bramwell’s eyes widened, and he swallowed hard.

The girl blew out a breath, a look of disappointment ghosting over her face. She reached into the satchel that was laced at her side and pulled out what looked like a spotted leaf. Here.

What am I supposed to do with that? he asked.

Eat it.

Why?

Trust me.

He watched her for a moment, studying her face. Her cheeks looked soft and smooth, and he was half tempted to reach out to feel them. Instead, he took the leaf from her hand.

She stared at him, waiting for him to do as she said. He didn’t know why he should trust this girl, except for the fact that if she meant any harm to come to him, she would have left him for the Undead. He twirled the leaf between his fingers, gazing into her eyes a moment more before he popped the leaf into his mouth and swallowed.

His head buzzed and his eyes itched as he came to. He had no idea how long he had been unconscious, but it was still light out, so it couldn’t have been too long. Unless he had slept through an entire night, in which case, he had completely missed out on the hunt.

Remembering where he was, he straightened, his back cold from sleeping against the wall of the cave. Whatever that leaf was, it had knocked him out quickly. He frowned as he realized the girl was no longer there. Moving his leg slightly, he hissed through his teeth at the buzz of pain. He reached for his ankle and then froze. A black zigzag was threaded through his skin, pulling the wound closed. Leaning forward, he delicately touched the thin silk floss. The flesh there was tender, but the bleeding had stopped, and the swelling had gone down slightly. The girl was not only strong, but crafty as well. He smiled and shook his head in wonder.

Bram!

Bramwell’s eyes widened, and he struggled to crawl out of the cave.

Bram! Where are you?

He clawed at the dirt, pulling himself forward despite the pain. Here! I’m here.

Bramwell?

Yes! Logan, I’m here!

With every muster of his being, he crawled to the foot of the embankment. The tiny spot that was Logan’s head appeared at the top of the wall of soil and snow. Bramwell waved, relief washing over him.

Hiding out in the Rift, I see, Logan called. Your uncle won’t be pleased. Hang on, then.

Logan disappeared, and ten seconds later a rope was lowered to the spot where Bramwell kneeled.

Wrap that around your torso and snake your arms through as well. The men and I will pull you up.

All right. Bramwell grabbed the rope and tied it around himself. As he looped it around his arm, he looked back toward the cave. If his rescuer was there, he wanted to thank her once more. Perhaps ask for her name. But he saw no one. There was a small pinch in his chest, but he brushed the feeling away and concentrated on being lugged out of the Rift.

Ready? Logan asked.

All set.

Well, you may not have scored any game, but I bet you have one hell of a story to tell when you reach the top.

Bramwell smiled to himself. Indeed, I do.

CHAPTER TWO

TORI WATCHED FROM THE CAMOUFLAGE of bushes as the boy rose out of the Rift. She had almost come out when he looked around, as if sensing he had been searching for her, but she couldn’t risk being seen by the Queen’s Guard. She waited until long after the boy was lifted out of sight before leaving her hiding place.

All the better, she thought to herself. She was raised to avoid contact and interaction with people from the other realms. There was a long history of disaccord between them.

But she couldn’t simply let an Undead kill the boy. She saw no harm in saving him. Perhaps there wasn’t the need to tend to his wounds; he would have survived his injuries without her aid. But she couldn’t help herself. It seemed cruel to let him suffer.

With her dagger gripped in her hand, she glided through the foliage as silently as possible. She had already gathered the supplies she needed, and it was crucial she get out of the Rift before dark. The Undead always seemed hungrier under the light of the moon. Aside from that, she didn’t want her mother to be concerned. She had enough troubling her without having to worry about Tori’s wellbeing.

She kept her grunts and murmurs to a minimum as she climbed over large rocks and slipped between heavy masses of trees. When she reached the creek that marked the halfway point in her journey, she climbed a great cedar that stretched out over the water. The bough was big enough for her to walk on. Holding her arms out to her sides, she kept her balance and strode along the length of the bough in her waxed canvas shoes. Toward the end of the bough, it forked off into two smaller branches, one of which hovered over a patch of wildflowers. Crouching down and grabbing hold of the branch, she swung her legs down and prepared to let herself drop.

As her fingers clung to the limb, her feet swinging below her, she heard an unsettling sound. Her throat closed up, and her temples and neck dampened with sweat as she realized it was too late to pull herself back up. Her jaw clenched to the point of aching when she spotted two Undead stagger toward her, their hungry moans filling her ears. She dropped to the bed of flowers, her feet barely touching the ground before she pulled two shuriken from their leather pouch. The first one she threw hit the closer Undead in the inner corner of his eye. The creature stumbled back with a loud moan, arms flailing as it fell. Tori swiftly hurled the second shuriken, which caught the remaining Undead in the decaying flesh near its ear. The creature floundered, spinning in a circle before crumpling to the ground and growing silent.

Tori let out a shuddered breath, letting her shoulders fall. She was usually good at avoiding the Undead, only resorting to using her shuriken when needed. It took her four days simply to carve one. Each one was treated in deadly nightshade overnight, the wood soaking up the poison, which would, by design, leach into its target upon impact. When handling the shuriken, she protected her hands with gloves, and when she was out in the Rift she covered her skin with a special salve made from wax and sap, though the nightshade only took effect when contacting broken skin.

Today alone, she had used three of the Throwing Stars—two weeks’ worth of work gone in a matter of hours. She didn’t dare retrieve the weapons from the corpses. Certainly, she could clean them off, re-carve any damaged parts, and re-treat them in more poison, but Tori made a point not to go near an Undead, fallen or not. There was simply no telling if one would rise again—though she’d yet to see that happen. And besides, the shuriken had served their purpose and taken down the Undead, and she was glad to be alive.

The sky was bathed in a pinkish hue as she finally reached the border of Drothidia. Climbing the familiar Sakura tree that sat at the embankment between the Rift and the outskirts of her village of Sukoshi, she took in the heartwarming sight of her homeland. Coming home from the Rift always filled her with two conflicting emotions. On one hand, she was glad to be home, unscathed and out of harm’s way. But the very reason she had to venture into the Rift at all filled her with sadness, a hollow feeling in her gut that left her with hopelessness. The Rift was the only area where Sweetwood Root grew. And Sweetwood Root was needed to ease the symptoms of the phoenix fever—the disease from which her sister suffered.

As she trudged along the road that led to her home, she passed the homes and people of her village, every once in a while spotting a symbol painted on a door in red paint: a straight vertical line which split at the top into two curved lines. The mark represented a phoenix and was a warning to anyone who might want to enter the house that someone inside had been infected. It was the same symbol that covered her own door. It wasn’t known yet if the disease could be passed from person to person, but everyone was being cautious, just in case.

It had become a ritual upon her return from the Rift to prepare the Sweetwood Root she had gathered by chopping the plant and then separating it into enough satchels for the infected. The satchels would then be delivered to the families of the ill, where they would be infused in boiled water and served as a tea.

There was no known cure for phoenix fever, but Tori had discovered that Sweetwood Root tea had alleviated most of the symptoms. When her sister Miki would drink the tea, her chills would subside, and her stomach cramps would lessen. There were even times when Miki had been able to leave her sick bed and join the family for supper. The fever, however, though dropping a few tenths of a degree, would continue to burden her, and her body remained weak. But even a morsel of relief for her poor, suffering sister was enough reason for Tori to risk the dangers of the Rift.

Her feet felt blistered and sore when she finally reached her door. She only cast the red mark upon it a fleeting glance as she entered the house. Her mother, who stood in the kitchen preparing dough for bread, dropped what she was doing and ran up to Tori.

Placing hands full of flour on Tori’s cheeks, her mother studied her with concern in her eyes. Tori, I was worried. You were gone for moons.

Sorry, Mama. But I’ve got the Sweetwood Root. She handed her mother the bag. How’s Miki?

Her mother pressed her lips together and shook her head. Her fever went up today. A few cold cloths helped a little. She’s sleeping now. A small smile appeared on her face. She’ll be happy to see you.

I’ll be right by her side when she awakens.

Her mother hugged the bag of roots to her chest. Let’s get the tea ready.

Tori followed her mother to their small kitchen and took out a pair of knives. Are Father and Masumi home from their duties?

They returned for supper but left afterward to help the Saito family with their fence.

Her father and brother were part of the team that built and mounted spiked masts in and around the village to ward off phoenixes. Before the disease, the beautiful birds were a welcome sight, their vibrant plumage a wonder to behold. Now, the fowl were looked upon with abhorrence. There were far too many deaths caused by the phoenix for anyone to look past its stunning appearance.

And Taeyeon? Tori asked.

Out playing with her little friends. Her mother offered her a small smile. But she will be back soon.

They worked silently for a few minutes, but Tori noticed her mother’s eyes on her more than once.

What? Tori asked.

Something happened. It wasn’t a question. Her mother always knew when she was hiding something from her.

Tori knew it was pointless to lie, but she also was in no mood to start a quarrel. If her mother found out she helped an Avarellian, they would be discussing her actions for moons. Perhaps she didn’t have to tell the entire truth. There was a Queen’s Guard hunt. I had to hide.

Did anyone see you?

Tori shook her head. I was well hidden.

"Good. There’s no telling what those savages would have done had they spotted you. They wouldn’t lift a finger to help us during the war with the Khadulians. That makes