Breathe (The Destiny Series: Book 1) (4 page)

“‘I have been a fool,’ Majin began. ‘I thought to rule Maj, and in my pride, forgot to look to my people for help and counsel. We have beaten back an enemy more terrible than any we have ever faced, but I will not say we have won. We have lost the best of us, though he was not born of Maj. Cyrus saved us all with his sacrifice.’

“Even the hardest of Maj’s warriors wiped tears from their eyes. The pain of their loss so fresh, and so profound, that they could not hold in their grief.

“‘Cyrus’s sword was all that was found, and we shall keep it in remembrance and honor of our friend. Should I ever again forget the value of my people, or to seek advice when it is needed, I pray this sword will remind me of my duty, and what it means to be a true protector of the people.’

“Some people say that Cyrus gave his life for a Maj maiden who had stolen his heart, never knowing that she had died in battle only moments before him, but we will never know. All that can be said is that he gave his life for the people of Maj, and for that we honor his memory.”

Daniel’s voice drifted into silence, and his spell was gradually broken. Wiping away the stray tear that trickled from her eye, Dearra stood gingerly. Pin pricks stabbed her heels. She had sat without moving as the story drew her in, and now she paid the price. Her toes tingled as she wiggled them in her boots in an effort to get the blood flowing again. She looked down upon the now sleeping form of her brother. His face rested on one outstretched arm, and his other hand still clung to the hilt of her sword. His hair obscured most of his face, but she could see the corners of his mouth turned slightly upward as he dreamt his little boy dreams.

Dearra chuckled. “Well, that must be a comment on your story telling abilities, Daniel,” she teased.

A scowl spread across Daniel’s face. He quipped in return, “Seemed
you
liked it well enough, or are your eyes leaking from some other malady?”

Dearra’s laughter rang out causing Phillip to stir slightly in his sleep. Dearra spoke more softly so as to not wake her little brother. “Peace, peace, Daniel. It was a wonderful story. It always is, although the heroics of Cyrus seem to grow with each telling.”

“Not true, and well you know it! That is one story that is retold faithfully, Dearra. Our history is not something I would make light of or twist to my own purpose for the sake of a better tale.”

Dearra’s smile faded as she looked into the serious face of her friend. She honestly intended no disrespect, meaning only to tease the weapons master a bit.

“You’re right, Daniel,” Dearra said sincerely. She dipped her head low in apology. “I’m sorry.”  

Daniel grumbled his acceptance of her act of contrition, and began to straighten the room for the night.

“Daniel? Can I ask you something?”

“It’s not likely to do me much good to say no, so go ahead.”

“What did you mean when you told Pip it was funny that he should ask to hear that story? That was a rather odd thing to say.”

“Oh, nothing, nothing at all. It was just the ramblings of an old man, and not worth your notice.”

Dearra responded to his constant complaints of old age as she always did, telling him that thirty-five was hardly old. He was a young man, really, with at least sixty years left to him as a warrior before he might want to settle down to something a bit more relaxing. One hundred was the age most men chose to retire from the military service of their lord and king, preferring, instead, the life of a farmer, ship builder, weaver, artist, or some other similar pursuit during the last forty or fifty years of life. Women retired from military service as it suited them. Some at one hundred, like the men, others when they had children. Still others served all their lives, children or no, just for the joy of the sword and shield, and the friendships that grew on the practice field. Then there were a few who served not at all, their hearts leaning to other callings, such as the study of medicine, as was the case with Dearra’s mother, or painting, or writing, or even the care of animals such as sheep and cattle. All contributions were recognized as of equal importance. Even so, most people felt the desire at some time to serve as protectors, to do their part to safeguard their homes and those of the ones they loved. Life was precious to the people of Mirin Tor, and it was a precarious world in which they lived, having to fight for everything they had, sometimes against enemies from other lands who held life in less regard. From time to time it was against the animals who, in their own struggle for life, threatened to push too far. There were also the natural disasters to deal with. At those times, every pair of hands was needed. Whether it was a brush fire, flood, or any of a hundred other emergencies that could occur in this perilous world, the cause was not important, only that they met it together.

Even as Dearra made light of Daniel’s complaints about the ramblings of old men, she did not miss the way his eyes flickered to the screen that sat in the corner of the room.

As he leaned forward to scoop Phillip up in his arms, Daniel whispered, “Enough for tonight, Dearra. I’ll get this one off to his room. It’s time you got some rest, too. Leave the sword, and you can work on it in the morning. We both need to be prepared for what is coming, and falling asleep on the Breken won’t do any of us any good.”

Dearra wrinkled her nose.
Why would anyone want to get that close to them?
she thought with disgust.

“Night then, Daniel,” she said. As she left the chamber, she called over her shoulder, “Sweet dreams!”

The comment was intended to irk the gruff weapons master, for no one who knew him would ever imagine him capable of having sweet dreams. Dreams of battle and victory, certainly, but sweet was pushing the limits of reason where Daniel was concerned. She did not see the pained look that came to his face as she retreated to the outer hall, or she would certainly have stopped and demanded an explanation of him.

***

Daniel’s dreams of late had been very, very strange indeed. He would toss and turn, and wake restless and upset, never quite remembering the whole of it, but remembering enough to bother him. He was dreaming of the box and what lay inside of it: the Sword of Cyrus. It had been kept and cherished for centuries. It was an heirloom, an item of exquisite beauty and power. It was not left on display, but jealously guarded. The people knew of its existence, of course, but such was their respect and awe for the relic, one did not speak of it casually. Daniel had, for three nights now, been having the same, compelling dream, and he feared tonight would be no different. It was with heavy steps that he made his way, first to Phillip’s room, and then to his own. His bed waited for him, invitingly, but he feared all he had to look forward to was another, very restless night.

***

Dearra made her way up the circular, stone passageway that wound round and round until she came to the top level, where a single, wooden door gave way to her bed chamber. Her room was large, round, and like Dearra herself, filled with contradictions.

The walls were hard stone and cold. Even in summer, the bare stone emitted a cool chill if one reached out a palm and touched it. To remedy this, beautiful tapestries, put there to offer some protection from the drafts of winter, hung on the walls. Each one depicted a scene from the history of Maj. Some ancient, some more recent, like stories written in needle and thread, they adorned almost every inch of the room. Though unlikely to admit it to anyone who asked, the story of Cyrus was her favorite, which is why this tapestry was prominently displayed above her bed. She could imagine the handsome Cyrus in all his glory on the field of battle, his hair brushing the tops of his shoulders, his sword singing and whistling through the air as it struck down the fearsome Breken. The stone fireplace, worked into the curved wall across from her bed, crackled merrily, and cast dancing shadows about the room. Someone had thoughtfully slipped up here to ensure Dearra would have at least what little comfort the fire could offer. A mantle of gnarn wood held the greatest treasures from her childhood: a little wooden dagger, a blue hair ribbon that was her mother’s favorite, and a painting of her mother and father on their joining day. Beside the fireplace, on the left, was a chair carved with flowers, topped with cushions of the deepest blue. The carpenter who made it had said the color matched Dearra’s eyes perfectly, and after his wife had dyed the fabric, he knew it had to be used on this chair alone. The comment had made her blush at the time, but it was a very pretty little chair, and she loved it. To the right of the fireplace sat another chair. It was heavy and practical, hard backed, and with no cushions or carvings. It was here that she tossed her clothes as she undressed for the evening. First, she removed the soft, leather pants, which offered scant protection from the stinging slaps of the wooden practice blades. Next, a soft shirt woven from lamb’s wool, then a stiff leather vest, meant to keep her unruly curves under control while she worked, stockings, and a pair of high, leather boots that hugged her legs and ended just below the knee. Lastly, she undid the serviceable leather tie that held her braid, and as she slid her fingers through the tight knots in her hair, she felt it begin to fan about her. She brought the brush up, and pulled it through the long strands. For the thousandth time, she thought how much easier it would be if she’d just cut the stuff off and went about shorter haired, as the men did. Oh, but how her father loved her hair, and she loved her father, and so it stayed.

She slipped her sleeping gown over her head. It was white and long, and brushed the floor as she walked. It was soft and frilly, with little bits of ribbon at the sleeves and around the gently fitted waist. It had a scooped neckline that seemed to accentuate her dreaded curves, but as there would be little to battle in her sleep, Dearra let herself enjoy the distinctly feminine garment.

Dearra leaned over a candle that added its own gentle shadows to the room, and puffed a quick breath to extinguish the flame. She climbed into the bed, certain sleep would be a long time coming, as all the thoughts of the day insisted on chasing each other round and round in her head, and mixed emotions of dread, fascination, and excitement warred with one another for her attention. She pulled back the heavy coverlet that topped her bed and slid beneath the cool crisp linens, sure she would lie awake for hours, but sleep claimed her almost immediately. Dearra’s soft breathing was soon drowned out by the calming, night noises of Maj.

***

Dearra was running and running, trying to find something she was certain she had lost. If only she knew what it was! A voice called to her. If she concentrated very hard she could almost feel the object in her hand. The voice came again, urging her to hurry before it was too late. She heard it more clearly that time, its crisp tone demanding, and…well…rude, really.

Something didn’t seem quite right.

Why was she running toward this arrogant, demanding, insulting whatever it was?

Girl child!
it said.
Girl child! I’m waiting! Tolah himself wouldn’t have had the patience to wait this long!

Even in her sleep, Dearra’s temper pricked at her.
Girl child?
she thought,
I am a woman of Maj! I am a warrior and protector of the people! You are just a disembodied voice, prattling on and offering no help, and with no direction! And who, or what, is a Tolah?

Ignorant girl!
the voice continued.
Tolah is all! I have no time to bandy words with an infant. Come and find me, immediately! Isn’t it bad enough I have to wait for a child, and a female child at that? On top of that I have to put up with its little fits of temper…That’s asking a bit much, as far as I am concerned.

Annoyed, but also a little amused by the strange voice, Dearra ran on and on, searching wildly in her need to find the object she sought. Her sword hand burned and ached, and a small yelp of pain slipped from her while she slept; it went unnoticed and unheard by any in the keep, save a passing mouse who did not even pause at the sound, but continued on its nocturnal quest for a wayward crumb.

Where are you? In the name of Tolah, girl, be quick! There is no time for these games,
the voice said, plainly agitated.

Well, you could help a little, you know,
Dearra snapped.
I’m trying to find you, but some assistance would be nice. Can’t you just tell me where you are
?

No, I can’t tell you where I am, silly twit. I am in the dark. How could I possibly see anything to give you directions? I told that man to take me to you, but would he listen? He did not. He knows better than I, it would seem. I finally gave up and came to you myself, and you are little better at listening than he. What he saw in you I will never know, but he said it had to be you, so there’s not much I can do about it now.

What who saw in me? The man who wouldn’t take you to me? You make no sense, voice.
The amusement at the dream was gone at this point, and Dearra was back to being just plain annoyed. On top of that, the burning in her hand was intensifying. The voice sighed.
No,
it said, n
ot the man who wouldn’t take me to you. I knew this was going to be difficult. He said I had to be patient and gentle, but it is proving such a burden on me.

This is you being gentle and patient?
Dearra sputtered.

Certainly,
replied the voice, as if the answer to that particular question should have been plain to even the simplest of minds. Wasn’t it beyond obvious that it was the very model of kindness and tolerance?
If I have to keep explaining and repeating everything we aren’t going to get very far, do try to keep up, girl.

Humph! Definitely annoying,
Dearra thought, and she continued to run, on and on into nothingness.

***

In another part of the keep, Daniel wrestled with his own dreams. He knew he was dreaming, but that did little to dispel the anxiety he felt. The dream was stronger and clearer tonight than it had been in the nights past. The voice, as always, badgered him with demands to be taken to the girl child. It seemed to him that the voice had come from the wooden box that carried the sword, but of course, that was insanity. The sword was never meant to have another owner. How could a sword demand anything at all, besides? At first, he was confused as to which girl child the voice referred. There were many girl children on Maj, but the voice refused to be more specific than that, saying only that the dolt knew precisely who it meant, and that no further explanation was required, even for a simpleton such as himself. No one spoke to the weapons master in that way, that is, no one who wanted to remain standing for long. But as Daniel was not a hasty man, he kept his control. The fact there was no one to actually knock down in his dream was a detail he chose to ignore, and as the voice so emphatically stated, he did, in his heart, know who it meant when it spoke of
the
girl child.