Chapter 1
“This can’t be right,” Kiara insisted, before rereading the passage for a fourth time.
She had been sneaking into the private archives of the Speaker of the Order of the Radiant Sun for several weeks now. Ever since the Speaker, her mother, had accidentally revealed their existence. And then expressly forbade her to investigate them.
As an acolyte training within the Order to be a Sun Speaker, she was expected to learn the teachings of the Dawnsinger. And in her own mind, learning these histories was exactly that. But what she had uncovered had led to more questions than answers. Questions she couldn’t ask without risking being labeled a heretic. Which left her with quite the puzzle.
“This has to be a mistake,” she insisted once again, gently lowering the ancient scroll. Pinching the bridge of her nose, she closed her weary eyes. Inhaling the scent of old parchment and cracked leather, she relaxed her breathing. Centering her mind, she whispered a brief prayer, the incantation for invigoration, and felt some of her weariness melt away.
Refreshed, she dug through the ever growing pile of documents from centuries before. Hidden among the drudgerous accountings of church leaders, land purchases, and a surprising number of marriage documents, she had stumbled upon some rather blasphemous information. And she could not fathom their meaning.
A bell tolled in the distance marking the third hour after dusk. Realizing the late hour, Kiara quickly but gently returned the manuscripts and scrolls back to their places. As she did, her hip bumped a bookcase. While she quickly grabbed the teetering shelf, something toppled out. Picking it up, she gasped at what she beheld.
At a quick glance it resembled the holy symbol worn by all of the Order, a stained-glass sunburst trimmed in gold. But upon closer inspection she discovered that embedded in the center was a Nightstone, symbol of the accursed Evetide, goddess of night. Finding such a blatant heresy hidden among the Order’s most sacred archives only added to her confusions.
The sound of approaching voices drifted to Kiara’s ears. In a panic she hastily stuffed the blasphemous holy symbol into the pockets of her robe. Scrambling across the room she quickly covered her Light Globe with a heavy cloth. While the enchantment to light them was simple, she had yet to master the dispelling portion, and so had to let the spell run its course.
Gathering her things, she made a hurried exit just as her mother rounded a corner. She appeared to be distracted, so Kiara deftly wedged herself within an alcove as she passed.
“I’m not sure,” Kiara heard her say. From her angle she couldn’t see who her mother spoke to. Or hear them.
“That could work. Dawnbringer knows we need it,” she heard her mother reply, her voice fading down the other end of the hallway.
Perplexed, Kiara wondered who her mother had been speaking to. But even more pressing was making her exit. If her mother caught her in the cathedral after eve bell, she’d be in for weeks of tedious labor as penance. So, with the forgotten relic in her robes, and many questions on her mind, Kiara beat a hasty retreat back home.
* * * * *
“No, no, no!” Maester Bel’Morrow shouted, accentuating each word with a crack of his wooden practice blade. Eamon winced at each strike against his bare ankles.
“You look like a wounded frog hopping after his supper,” the Maester criticized. “It’s called Shadow DANCING, not Shadow STUMBLING.”
“Yes, Maester,” Eamon muttered in response.
Bel’Morrow just shook his head and directed Eamon to run more drills. Approaching the pair was a well dressed older elven woman. Noticing her, Bel’Morrow called Eamon to attend.
“Night Mistress, you honor us with your presence,” Bel’Morrow offered in greeting.
“Oh, stuff the formalities, ’Morrow,” she ordered. “How goes my son’s training?” She asked.
“Well,” Bel’Morrow began, looking sideways at Eamon, “he has the potential to be one of the greatest Shadow Dancers…”
Eamon beamed at his mentor’s unexpected praise.
“…in a century or two,” Bel’Morrow finished as Eamon’s expression dropped.
The Night Mistress eyed her son before motioning for Bel’Morrow to walk with her. Ordering Eamon to go through his drills again, Bel’Morrow followed. The Night Mistress quickly muttered an arcane verse, shielding their immediate vicinity from young prying elven ears.
“Stow the tough mentor routine for a moment,” the Night Mistress instructed. “How is he really doing?”
“Mineara, I’ll be honest,” Bel’Morrow confided, watching Eamon leap from shadow to shadow seamlessly, “he is a natural. But he is headstrong and cocky,” Bel’Morrow added.
“What youth isn’t?” Mineara chuckled.
“This is different,” Bel’Morrow pressed. “He sees his gifts as a toy. He doesn’t grasp the weight of the Evetide’s blessing, or the dangers it poses,” he explained.
“So that’s why the tough teacher act?” Mineara inquired.
“It’s no act,” Bel’Morrow assured her. “He needs to learn to take this seriously. If he doesn’t, who knows what trouble he’ll get into.”
With that the two watched Eamon dart and dash about the training course. With great precision he threaded the various obstacles. But Mineara could now see the recklessness. He took unnecessary risks, and her heart near stopped as he executed a complicated maneuver only to misstep. But as he deftly caught himself before striking the hard ground she realized the truth of Bel’Morrow’s words. So, with a final wave to her son and a word of thanks to Bel’Morrow, Mineara departed to see to her duties within the Enclave.
* * * * *
Back in her room within the castle, Princess Kiara removed her acolytes robes and prepared herself for bed. Feeling an odd lump in her clothes, she fished out the strange holy symbol, having completely forgotten about it. Her eyes darted about, finally settling on her dresser. She quickly pulled open a drawer and stuffed the relic under her clothes, confident her maids wouldn’t go snooping around and find it.
With the symbol secure, she thought back on the near encounter with her mother. Who had she been talking to? And what was it that was needed? These questions plagued her along with the newly unearthed revelations of her forbidden studies. And with those queries rebounding within her mind, she drifted off to sleep.
* * * * *
Exhausted and battered from hours of training, Eamon collapsed onto his hard bunk, too tired to even remove his armor. Bel’Morrow had drilled him even harder after his mother had departed, and he knew he’d have bruises for weeks.
Looking over, he noticed the only ornamentation he was allowed. His father’s longsword, its thin black Shadowsteel blade almost invisible in the dark of his room, hung from his wall. It was his motivation and his burden. To one day be worthy of wielding the blade of a hero of the Enclave. And with memories of his father weighing heavy on him, he rolled back over as sleep overcame him.
