Breathe (The Destiny Series: Book 1) (5 page)

It could only be Dearra.

Dearra had been special from the moment of her birth, her eyes proclaiming she was someone to be watched. As she grew, she excelled with the blade, and though Daniel would never tell her so, she exceeded even his skill with the sword. He let her believe her victories were those won from a benevolent teacher eager to encourage his pupil. She still had much to learn, though, and she never tired of practicing. She listened eagerly to every word Daniel spoke, and looked upon her father as a god to be obeyed and emulated in all things. She had pride in her accomplishments, but was never conceited, or considered herself above her peers. She knew where her faults lay, and she worked diligently to overcome them. Her skill with a shield was sadly lacking, though, and because she preferred the freedom of the swinging sword, she often neglected the practice needed to properly protect herself. Above all, her temper was the bane of her existence. If she could rein that in, it seemed to him, there would be no finer warrior. Her temper clouded her judgment, making her act too quickly, and without proper thought and planning. In spite of these traits, and maybe partially because of them, Dearra was special.

Well, foolish man,
the voice spoke scathingly,
I’ve gone to her myself. Unfortunately, it seems she isn’t much brighter than you. Oh, how I suffer at the hands of you mortals.

Daniel didn’t much care for the tone the voice used to address him, but he bit his tongue as best he could.
I believe I know what you want. You wish me to give the Sword of Cyrus to Dearra.

Well, praise be to Tolah! I knew you would get it! I told myself to be patient with you, and you would eventually get it! Fortunately, I had the foresight to keep at it!

The voice sounded so sincere in its praise of itself and confident that it had been the sole reason for its own success, Daniel’s eyes rolled behind his closed lids. Unable to help himself, he let out a soft chuckle in his sleep. 

Why her?
Daniel asked, serious now.

That is none of your concern, little man. I have already lowered myself by speaking with you, even if only in a dream. I will not debase myself further by explaining myself to you.

Then my answer must be no,
Daniel said calmly.

What?
The voice sounded more stunned than angry, as if it were unable to comprehend his statement. Now that its wishes were known and understood, how could they be refused? It simply made no sense. It was…impossible.

What’s not to understand? My response was plainly stated, and no further explanation is required, even for a simpleton such as yourself,
Daniel said, mimicking the voice’s earlier words to him. 

For a moment, the voice could only sputter and stammer in startled rage. How dare this puny little man deny it what it wanted?
But I…But you…Impossible!

Peace!
Daniel bellowed, and the voice paused in its sputtering.
I will not endanger Dearra. If you will not tell me the purpose for which the sword is to be given, then I must, for her sake, assume you wish to do her harm. I may be wrong in this assumption, but it is a chance I will not take. She is more precious to me than even my own life, and to risk her safety on the mad ravings of a dream voice would be the very height of foolishness. On this point, I will not yield.

The voice was silent while it took in what Daniel had said, and when it spoke again, it was resigned. Daniel fancied he’d detected just the faintest hint of humility in its tone.

Very well. But understand, Weapons Master, that I cannot tell you all, and before I begin, I will have your vow never to reveal what I say to you now, or no words will be spoken at all.

Daniel mulled the imperious demand.
I can live with that. On the condition, you understand, that if ever my king or my lord should demand of me this information, I will be duty bound to give it.

Agreed,
said the voice.
I understand all too well the obligations of loyalty, but as they should never have reason to know this conversation ever occurred, I doubt that will be a problem.

And as Daniel slipped deeper into his dream, the voice continued to speak…

When Dearra awoke early the next morning, she felt like she had not slept at all. She remembered a bizarre dream where a strange voice had been urging her to find something, an object, or something…it was all so confusing, it made her head spin. And then, for no reason at all, it just stopped. The voice had gone, but Dearra continued to run and search. She had woken exhausted, and with an odd ache in her right hand. She told herself it was just a dream and that it had meant nothing, really. Besides, with the Breken on their way, she had more important things to occupy her time than her dreams.

Daniel woke to the same sense of sleep deprivation that Dearra experienced. Grim determination punctuated his movements as he dressed. When he was finished, he made his way to the sword that sat waiting for him in the weapons room. The dream, he knew now, was not a dream at all. It was a sleeping communication between himself and…well, let’s just say it was a being like none he had ever known in all his thirty-five years. While there were still many questions in his troubled mind, of one thing he was absolutely certain—the Sword of Cyrus now belonged to Dearra. The fact he had yet to hand the weapon over to her was irrelevant; it was hers. The physical transfer needed to take place as soon as possible, or the weapons master feared for his sanity. The voice was insistent, and it would not let another night pass where Dearra was not in possession of the sword.

As Daniel neared the place where the box sat, his heart beat just a bit faster. Slowly, and with great care, he undid, first one latch, and then the other, holding the lid tightly sealed. His heart hammered in his chest as he peeled back the heavy, wooden lid. Anticipation of something to come ran like a current through him. He waited to hear the voice that had haunted his dreams, but there was nothing except the still silence of the room, and the beating of his own heart.

Inside the box sat the Sword of Cyrus in pristine perfection, on a bed of silk. Though heavy clouds hung in the sky dampening the light, the sword still seemed to shimmer. This time there was no voice, no…nothing, just the sword, sitting as it had for hundreds of years, untouched and alone in its rough-hewn box of wood. Through the years, people had thought to place the sword in a more stately case, but it was believed safer where it was. It was hoped that any enemy who would make it past the Maj defenses would be unlikely to consider the box of any worth in their search for treasure, and pass it over for the more visible weapons around it, many of which were extremely valuable in their own right.

The sword itself was a thing of tremendous beauty, but also an enigma. The people of Maj used steel blades, which were stronger than either bronze or iron. The steel was forged with the addition of charcoal during the smelting process, then quenched and tempered to strengthen the metal into a fine edged weapon, but the metal used to create the Sword of Cyrus was unknown to Daniel. The blade was slightly longer than those used by the Maj, with symbols etched, skillfully, all along the blade. When lifted and turned slowly in the light, the ancient runes seemed to glimmer subtly, as if diamond dust were imbued into the blade. The hilt of the sword seemed almost plain by comparison, until one’s eyes took in the gem at the very end. About the size of a duck’s egg, and the color a vibrant gold, it had a single, onyx streak flashing through its center, giving it the look of a cat’s eye. When one deliberately turned the blade, be it to the left or the right, a subtle change occurred—the flaw in the center of the stone seemed to shift, moving slightly, as if scanning the room around it. After sitting for so long on the stone floor in Daniel’s room, the blade should have been cold, or at least cool to the touch, but like Majin so many years ago, Daniel felt an almost uncomfortable warmth emanating from the hilt of the great weapon. He gently replaced the sword to its previous position in the box, shut the lid, and went in search of Dearra.

***

Dearra strolled through the gnarn trees, following the well-worn path deeper into the forest at a leisurely pace. She scolded herself that she should be preparing for the upcoming battle, but really, what more could she do but wait? It might be weeks yet, before the Breken arrived. Her friend, Carly, had already left for the mainland. The caves were stocked and ready for the children and the few adult Maj who would not be joining in the coming fight. Weapons were polished, and armor was oiled and repaired.

Dearra walked steadily toward the towering pine. It was hard to imagine it as the pretty little tree from last night’s story. It loomed over her, pushing its way through the gnarn trees around it, until it broke past their canopy of twisted branches and flew heavenward. Little animals scuffled and scurried through the ground clutter, searching for the hard cones that dropped from the tree, and plundered the nuts held within.

Dearra wrapped her arms around the trunk of one of the nearby trees, resting her head against the comforting and familiar feel of the bark. She took a deep breath to steady herself, knowing this was where she belonged, but the tension within her continued to build, nevertheless. On top of that, her hand still ached and burned uncomfortably. She almost wished she were with Carly so she would have someone with which to share her thoughts.

Carly was the same age as Dearra. They had grown up together. Carly was everything Dearra was not: quiet, even tempered, and ever-patient. She had soft, brown hair and soft, brown eyes. Slender and smaller than Dearra, she was often the one chosen to send messages to the mainland. Her serene and comforting manner ensured she would both bring and send accurate information, and not let heightened emotions taint her views. She was the perfect sounding board for Dearra, calming her when she had worked herself into an agitated frenzy, and help her to see the situation more clearly. Dearra missed the steady strength of her friend, especially now, as she felt helpless in her efforts to control the thoughts whipping and whirling within her.

Dearra wasn’t afraid of the immanent battle exactly, she was just more edgy than she could ever remember being before a fight. Of course, the fact that the Breken represented fear, itself, to most Maj, and were also the source of most of their nightmares might have had something to do with it. It wasn’t about the fight, but about the sheer terror of losing loved ones. These enemies came, specifically, to make off with as many slaves as possible, and to kill as many of the rest as they could on the way out. It was destruction and death for no other reason than to satiate their bloodlust and greed. Plus, from what she had been told, the Breken had their own magical abilities. Oh, they fought with weapons just as the Maj did, but they could also call upon ancient magic to aid them in battle. Most powers were subtle, such as being able to twist the light around themselves, just enough so they would appear to be standing in a slightly different spot than where they actually were, or to move with blinding speed, long enough to pop up behind an unsuspecting victim. Yet another was able to create sounds that distracted or disoriented his victims by calling out in the voice of a loved one, plucked from a mind. The ability to make that voice call out as if in pain, at just the right moment, could be quite efficient.

Dearra pushed away from the tree, roughly. Those thoughts did her no good, serving only to heighten her useless worries. She would deal with the Breken when they came. She sighed quietly to herself, and with a small shake of the head, began walking back toward home.

Without warning, Daniel was standing in front of her, and she jumped a little in surprise. How had she let herself become so distracted she neither heard nor saw Daniel’s approach? As she looked at her friend, she could see he was tense and guarded. She quickly scanned the area around her. Seeing nothing that would give her reason for fear, and since Daniel was still and holding no weapon, she brought her eyes back to him, and cocked a brow in question. Without a word, Daniel set a long, wooden box on the ground in front of her. It was the same box that had piqued her curiosity in the weapons room only the night before. Suddenly, the dull ache in her hand flamed to a sharp and stabbing pain. She gave a shrill yelp, and grasped her right hand in her left. If Daniel thought her behavior strange, he gave no indication, but remained standing as he had been.

“Open the box, Dearra,” Daniel said, his voice grave and commanding.

A million questions erupted in her mind, and she asked not a one, but rather, dropped to her knees beside the box. Fighting past the now excruciating pain in her hand, she fumbled with the latches on the wooden case. As she tore the lid open, her head spun and her hands shook. Her brow creased with a look of determination. Still Daniel reacted not at all, but remained, standing over Dearra as her eyes rested on the magnificent sword before her for the first time. There was no question in her mind what it was. The Sword of Cyrus had been described so often in legend, song, and children’s bedtime stories, it was as though she had looked on it every day of her life.

Dearra expected to burst into white hot flames as her hand slowly reached for the great weapon. The anguish was so tremendous at that point, she wondered how she was able to think straight, and yet her hand continued to reach, until, at last, it came to rest on the hilt of Maj’s most treasured relic. In that instant, the pain was gone. It did not diminish or fade, but was simply gone.

She lifted the sword from its simple case and held it up to her eyes. Etched finely in the blade were magnificent runes that glimmered and sparkled, and the large, brilliant gem at the hilt flashed as she turned the sword left and right, testing its weight in her hand. It should have been heavy. Strong as she was from years of practice, Dearra was too small to handle a sword this size, but this felt almost light in her grip and perfectly balanced. She stood, and backing away from Daniel, made a sweeping arc with the blade.

Isn’t the blade supposed to be hot, or at least unusually warm?
Dearra mused. She continued to swing the weapon and get to know the feel of it in her hand.
This blade is cool instead, comforting, like a breeze off the sea on a summer afternoon. I guess not all legends are true after all.

“The sword belongs to you now, Dearra,” Daniel said, disrupting Dearra’s thoughts.

“How…?” she began, and then ended when she realized she didn’t really know what to say or ask. Though she hadn’t realized it was missing until she found it, the sword was hers, and seemed like it had always been. A sense of calm settled over her. She looked at Daniel and simply nodded her head.

“After all these years, I am sure it had to be you, and it had to be now, I don’t know why. Perhaps the rest of it will be revealed in time, perhaps not, who can know for sure?

“Come on, now, Dearra. We have to be getting back.”

“Uh huh, back …right.” Dearra nodded and continued to stare at the sword.

Daniel began the long trek back, taking her by the elbow in order to guide the bemused young woman as they walked.

Dearra’s mind began to clear as they continued their hike, and when it did, she started speaking rapidly, with child-like enthusiasm. “You’ll have to start training me right away. I’m not used to a sword quite this long. Do you think Father will be angry? No, how could he be? I mean, if you say it’s alright, he will know it’s alright, right? I’ll need a scabbard for the blade. I can’t go around with it like this; I’ll cut my leg off. See how fine the edge is, Daniel? I’ll bet there isn’t a finer sword in all the realms.”

“Peace, Dearra, you’re making my head split. Yes, we will begin your training, and yes, you will need a scabbard.”

“And Father?” Dearra asked, a little frown marring her face.

“Your father will understand,” Daniel said reassuringly, though he did have some doubts of his own.

“One thing is odd,” Dearra mumbled half to herself.

Daniel couldn’t help himself. He roared with laughter, stopped in his tracks, and turned to face Dearra. “Just
one
thing?” he asked. “Truly, you have a unique view of the world if, standing there holding the Sword of Cyrus, you can say you find only
one
thing odd.”

Dearra wrinkled her nose at Daniel, her expression scolding him. “Okay, okay, more than one thing, but one thing in particular. I had always heard how the blade was warm to the touch, and sometimes even hot.”

“Yes, that’s true.” Daniel looked at her questioningly.

“Well, this blade is cool.”

“Really? That’s strange.” Daniel shook his head at the unusual turn of events. The heat of the blade was as much a part of it as the runes or the eye-like gem on the hilt. Perhaps something was wrong. Maybe he had made a mistake. Worry etched his forehead. He reached out a hand, looked at Dearra, and said, “May I?”

She hesitated, but only for a moment, before handing the blade to Daniel. His fingers touched the end of the sword near Dearra’s hand, but before she’d had enough time to release her grip on it, Daniel let out a fierce yell of pain. He yanked his hand away, and stuffed the two fingers that had brushed the handle quickly into his mouth.

“Oh! Let me see! Daniel! Are you ok?” Dearra said.

Hesitantly, Daniel removed the fingers from his mouth and held them out for her to see. They were blistered, as if they had been held to a fire. The skin around the blisters had already turned an angry red. Daniel looked at the scorched fingers and chuckled softly.

“What could possibly be so funny?” Dearra asked, startled by Daniel’s reaction to what surely must be a painful burn.