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  BRAENLICACH

  The Zygradon Chronicles $2

  By

  Michelle L. Levigne

  Uncial Press Aloha, Oregon

  2008

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events described herein are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-60174-051-9

  ISBN 10: 1-60174-051-4

  Copyright © 2008 by Michelle L. Levigne

  Sword photo and cover design by Judith B. Glad

  Background photo: NASA, ESA, and The Hubble Heritage Team (STScI/AURA)

  All rights reserved. Except for use in review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the author or publisher.

  Published by Uncial Press,

  an imprint of GCT, Inc.

  Visit us at http://www.uncialpress.com

  Chapter One

  "What worries me more than these attacks on the vales is our inability to determine who is doing the attacking," Ceera murmured. She tucked a loose strand of fine white hair behind her ear. In the hours since she had sat down at the council table to work through this latest problem troubling the land of Lygroes, many strands had worked loose of the waist-length simple braid she used to tame her straight waterfall of hair. "Since the first attempt to drain power from the vales, we have been vigilant. The strongest, most sensitive among us have guarded the Threads leading into the vales, to capture the imbrose signature underlying these attacks. And yet...nothing. How can this be?"

  None of the six at the council table in Master Breylon's quarters responded. She seemed almost to be talking to herself and to the thick stack of messages, scrolls and wax tablets spread out in front of her. The long table nearly groaned under the weight of records sent from every corner of the land, along with requests and complaints from Moerta.

  For once, the leaders of the Noveni who had migrated back to the continent being slowly cleansed of the poison of star-metal were right to be worried how this latest problem on Lygroes affected them. The attacks on the vales, the pools of collected magical power, could have an effect on the entire world, not just the Rey'kil, and those Noveni who had some touch of imbrose talent.

  Mrillis, who preferred to stand behind her, visibly her guard and aide, contemplated revealing one little detail that only fourteen people in the entire world knew. The thought brought new darkness to his dark eyes and bowed his squared shoulders with new weight. Every time the malevolent enchanter attacked the vales, trying to tangle and drain the Threads that carried the power born of star-metal throughout the World, the Zygradon reacted.

  When the bowl of refined star-metal reacted to the harsh vibrations in the Threads, the fourteen young women and men who had helped forge the Zygradon felt it. Anyone with imbrose felt the attacks to some degree, even if it was just a sense of a sour note in the air. Those bound to the Zygradon suffered headaches, momentary loss of vision or the ability to move, tingling in their hands, a sour taste in their mouths. It all depended on how close the sufferer was to a vale when the attack happened. It didn't matter if it was the vale under attack.

  The fact that the Zygradon reacted as it did, and that those who had made it reacted as they did, worried them all. Ceera, as the one who used all their combined imbrose to create the bowl, felt the reaction the most. It stole her sleep and jangled her nerves. Half the time, when Mrillis wrapped her in his arms to support and comfort her, she clung to him. The other half, she came close to clawing and spitting like an enraged kitten, so unbalanced by the attack she didn't recognize the one whom she claimed was the other half of her soul.

  Maybe, as she had just said, the worst part of all this was that no matter how quickly the forgers of the Zygradon reacted to the attacks on the vales, no matter how much more sensitivity their bond with the bowl gave them to all the Threads in the World, no one could gather enough details to determine who the attacker was.

  There were clues, but they were useless. The attacker used imbrose, not blood magic. As the leaders of all Rey'kil in the World, Ceera, Mrillis, Master Breylon and his heir, Deyral, should have known the particular unique resonance through the Threads that identified each user of imbrose. Yet no matter how many echoes of that enemy imbrose they and others sensed and recorded as memories for others to share, no one could put a name or face or even a geographic location to that particular resonance.

  Mrillis feared that inability to recognize one particular vibration of magic meant an enchanter had been trained outside the boundaries and disciplines of Wynystrys or the Stronghold. That this unknown enchanter was an enemy had become evident from the first attack and the first rebuffed attempt at communication. Unpredictable, unknown, unidentifiable magic was particularly hard to defend against.

  Secrets, Mrillis decided in that moment, were not in anyone's best interests at a time like this. What sort of damage could be done to their defense of Lygroes and Moerta if he and Ceera kept the secret of the Zygradon any longer? Sharing that bit of information might strike a chord of memory in someone else, and bring them an answer. At least, that was the theory he and Ceera had tossed back and forth between them during the long, rainy moons as summer turned into fall.

  I think we should tell them, he thought to her.

  Her sigh and the lifting of her head was answer enough. He stepped forward and rested a hand on her shoulder, physically giving support. Mrillis looked around the room and met the eyes of the others at the table. Master Breylon, representing the scholars of Wynystrys. Warlord Lyon as representative of the Warhawk. Ceera and Triska represented the Stronghold: Queen of Snows and Queen's Heir. Endor and Nixtan represented the Rey'kil who worked with Noveni soldiers, patrolling the shores of Lygroes and Moerta to ward off the Encindi who tried to invade even during the worst sea storms of winter.

  Mrillis wasn't sure who he represented. Maybe he stood for and with everyone who had a stake in protecting Lygroes and Moerta. As tutor to Athrar, nephew and heir of the Warhawk, he sympathized with and understood the Noveni. As Breylon's student, he knew how the scholars on Wynystrys thought, their concerns. He had been raised in the Stronghold, foster-son of the last Queen of Snows, foster-brother to Ceera.

  He almost yanked his hand off Ceera's shoulder as he felt once again that pleasantly painful twinge in his heart. He wanted to be so much more than Ceera's playmate and fellow adventurer. Le'esha had approved of his growing love for the girl and had laughed at his conviction that Ceera was beyond his reach specifically because she would be Queen of Snows someday.

  "The Zygradon is tied to the vales," Ceera said, rescuing him from the spiraling path of his thoughts, and the frustration and hope that always confused him. "When the vales are attacked, the Zygradon reacts, and those of us who are bound to the Zygradon feel the attacks. Mrillis and I theorize that the attacks on the vales are an attempt to disrupt the Threads, and somehow harm the Zygradon."

  "If that's so, maybe the attempt is to hurt everyone who helped make it," Endor said quietly, his eyes somber and dark-rimmed with lack of sleep, his red hair lank and matted from the long, sweaty ride he and Nixtan had endured to get to Wynystrys.

  In the long moons since the making of the Zygradon, since he had been left out of the effort and had been accused of slaughtering a Noveni village, Endor had changed. Mrillis wasn't sure he liked it. The cocky, eager, determined young man was gone, replaced by someone determined to wear his life down to a threadbare rag in an effort to find the Rey'kil traitors and punish t
hose who had contributed to the death of Le'esha, Queen of Snows.

  Mrillis sometimes thought he didn't recognize the man who had taken over his boyhood friend. Endor always had an air of muted pain about him, and guilt made Mrillis want to avoid him most of the time. How would things have turned out differently if they had waited just one more day for Endor to rejoin their group before heading into the tunnel under the sea to form the Zygradon?

  Nixtan said nothing. There was no expression on his long, nut-brown, bearded face, not even a flicker of emotion in his pale eyes. Mrillis saw the other young man's shoulders move, just a twitch, like a man would do when he gave a grunt of doubt. Nixtan also had changed in the last few years, becoming a dependable, honorable person who defended the weak and young.

  He had made overtures of friendship to Endor, back in the days when they were a team scouring the poisoned landscape of Moerta to gather up star-metal and cleanse the land. Endor had been skeptical of Nixtan's friendship and his apologies for being a bully when they were all younger. It seemed, despite their being assigned to work together, Nixtan had given up on friendship. Mrillis wondered if his friend believed the accusations against Endor. Mrillis made a mental note to talk to him, privately.

  Maybe he thinks Endor is behind the attacks on the vales, Ceera said in that quiet, private link between their minds.

  Maybe, Mrillis agreed.

  Ceera didn't trust Endor. She had made it obvious at least to Mrillis. There was more than Endor's frustrating refusal to give up on winning her heart. She could have waited for Endor to rejoin them before making the bowl of star-metal, but refused. Just as Mrillis could have left a message for his childhood friend, but had crumpled the bit of parchment and made no effort to delay their mission. He thought his inaction had only been due to jealousy, though he knew Endor had no chance to win Ceera's heart. What if the slowly thickening wall between him and Endor came from more than rivalry and guilt?

  "Then, my children," Breylon said after a pause, in which he looked into the eyes of each person sitting at the table, "we must take steps to protect both the vales and the forgers of the bowl. I think it is high time we repair the damage in our accords with the Noveni, and include the Warhawk's people in this effort."

  "But Noveni don't have any imbrose," Triska murmured. She glanced at her older brother, almost as if seeking his approval for her words. "How can they protect the vales, or even sense when they have reached the borders of the vales, without imbrose?"

  "Not the pure-blooded Noveni, anyway," Nixtan said. He sat back in his chair and offered his usual crooked grin. "Some Noveni received Lady Ceera's star-metal trinkets as good-will gestures. A few of them with Rey'kil blood have...well, they've been able to perform minor magic without even meaning to." He snorted and exchanged glances with Endor, who nodded and surprised Mrillis by grinning. "I don't know who was more surprised," he added with a crooked grin of his own, "us or them, or the people who got the bad end of the reaction."

  "That will do much to mend the bad feelings," Breylon said, nodding his white-haired head. He stroked his long, silky beard, a sign of deep, rapid thought. "The half-bloods have always been looked down on, even in the best of times. Since the tragedy of the tunnel and Le'esha's death, both sides have looked on the half-bloods with suspicion. If they have an important duty, integral to the protection of our land...yes, that will mend much. Endor, you will be the first of the guardians of the vales."

  "Me?" Endor sat up straight and his mouth dropped open, his eyes almost as wide. Mrillis thought for a moment his friend would protest. Instead, the red-haired man shook his head and shrugged. "Do you really think, Master, that people will forget my Encindi blood or my traitor father?"

  "No, and I do not intend them to. I want to demonstrate my utter trust in you, your sense of honor and duty, and to prove that choice and training are stronger than blood. And to repair some unintended harm done to you, my boy," he added, nodding. "You will be the first of a proud and noble brotherhood."

  * * * *

  Mrillis felt the Threads hum as he approached the Warhawk's winter fortress. Despite the lateness of the hour and his long ride in icy, dry wind, he felt a new surge of energy. Somewhere ahead of him, someone had picked up one of Ceera's many trinkets of star-metal and had disturbed the Threads. They made a particular resonance that couldn't be mistaken for any other vibration when someone touched the Threads with their imbrose. A Noveni had discovered he had just enough Rey'kil blood to sense the presence of the Threads. That was likely why the Warhawk had requested him to make the journey from the Stronghold at this time of year.

  Interesting, Ceera agreed, when he touched a Thread and sent the information and his impressions back to her. Whoever it is will want training immediately. I wonder if they'll request that you or I train the new Valor? I've had a long, hard day and I'm going to bed now. Please don't wake me with the news, no matter how important this one thinks he is.

  Yes, my Lady. I hear and obey.

  A sensation like a light slap on his cheek came through their connection, which broke with an almost audible snap. Mrillis snorted and grinned into the winds that bit at his exposed skin. A new Valor waited for him at the Warhawk's fortress. He didn't know what amused him more; the new name that had formed in less than a moon's time for those Noveni who had discovered their imbrose and were tapped for guardianship of the vales, or the nobles among the Noveni who insisted that only the Queen of Snows or High Scholar Breylon should be their teacher.

  How things had changed, in only a few moons. Why was it that the Noveni believed so easily in the existence of the Zygradon, when no one but those who had forged it could see or touch it? Why was it such a high honor to be named a guardian of the Vales, and by extension a guardian of the Zygradon? And why was it such a sought-after situation, to have magic, when only this past spring all Noveni hated and feared Rey'kil and wanted to migrate as one body to Moerta?

  He sighed, and closed his eyes as an extra-hard gust of icy wind slapped him as if in rebuke. Not too long ago, all Rey'kil had blamed the Noveni, especially their nobles, for the death of Le'esha, Queen of Snows. The rebels among them who had set about to drive all Noveni from Lygroes, even resorting to murder and wholesale destruction of homes and estates, were still unidentified and roaming freely.

  At least they no longer think Endor is their leader, Ceera offered.

  I thought you were going to sleep, he retorted, and grinned again into the darkness. Just ahead, the woods seemed to split apart, and he could see the towers of the fortress, gleaming with torchlight.

  With you thinking so loudly? She laughed. The wind is especially loud off the sea tonight. I keep thinking I hear children crying, through the thickest stone walls. Remember to point out the glories of winter in the Stronghold, if that new Valor insists on being trained by me.

  Yes, my Lady. Mrillis laughed quietly, echoing Ceera's laughter. His smile faded when the sound of her voice left his head, and he knew their connection through the Threads had ended. He clucked to his horse, urging a last burst of speed from the tired, cold beast.

  Halfway across the open ground between the forest's edge and the fortress, a horseman rode out from the massive gates and raced across the snowy, hard-packed ground to meet him. Mrillis saw the golden hair flying wildly in the wind and the way the rider hung low over the horse's neck, and recognized Athrar racing out to meet him. How long had it been since he saw the boy? He felt a twinge of guilt at neglecting the young prince's lessons, but knew it only made sense for Athrar to spend his time with his uncle now, and learn all the things necessary to be Warhawk someday.

  How old was the boy now? Fourteen? Mrillis had a fleeting moment of feeling incredibly old. Where had the time gone? He had been younger than Athrar was now, when they first met; although he doubted the boy remembered, being practically a newborn, spending most of his time eating and sleeping.

  Mrillis couldn't remember a time when life had been that simple for him. Had it ever,
even when he was a newly orphaned boy, watched over by Le'esha and Graddon?

  Then all other thoughts fled as he felt a pressure, a presence pushing against him. That particular resonance of a Noveni touched with imbrose grew stronger...as Athrar rode closer. Mrillis almost reined his horse to a stop, to give him time to comprehend. Instead, he gathered up his sense of self and sent it questing along the Threads, toward that untrained, fledgling imbrose.

  Athrar? He nearly burst out laughing when the oncoming rider yanked on the reins, making his horse swerve and half-rear up in reaction. So, you can hear me. That's very good, for someone untrained in imbrose.

  Mrillis? The boy's mental voice cracked just like his physical voice did. I'm not insane? I'm not imagining it?

  Not at all. When did it start?

  Lady Ceera gave me a ring made of star-metal for solstice. It...it sang to me, even before I took it from the pottery box that held it. By this time, the two riders were close enough for Mrillis to see the strained, crooked grin on the boy's square-cut face.

  "Better stop that and talk normally," he called. "You're draining yourself." He bit his lip against another grin at the relief clear on the boy's face. "Estall bless us, but you've grown. Ceera won't recognize you." He shook his head in amazement.

  Athrar had to be two hands taller than he had been half a year ago. He had lost the childish roundness in his cheeks, and the hands gripping the reins were long and narrow and showed calluses from hours practicing with sword, bow and spear.

  "So, you want to be a Valor, do you? Just because you're sensitive to the power of star-metal?" He managed to hold a straight face just until panic and disappointment made the boy's face go pale. Then he laughed and reached across the gap between their horses, grasping his forearm in a salute of equals. "I can't think of anything more blessed than to have the Warhawk's heir counted among the guardians of the lifeblood of our land. I assume your uncle approves?"