Dawn Rising, page 1
Dawn Rising
A.F.E. Smith
IronWright Books
Copyright 2020 Anna Cleckner
Cover based on an image by Andre Moura from Pexels.com
ISBN 978-1-8382237-1-7
This edition created and distributed through Smashwords.
Published in ebook format by IronWright Books, 2020. Also available in paperback. For more information about our books, visit www.ironwrightbooks.com.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this ebook may be reproduced without the prior permission of the publishers, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Nor may the ebook be resold or given away. If you are reading this ebook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Contents
Epigraph
Map
Part I: Reflection
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Elsewhere
Part II: Another Life
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Elsewhere
Part III: Shadow and Light
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Elsewhere
Part IV: Blood Magic
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Elsewhere
Part V: Marked
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Coming Soon
Author’s Note
“So I wasn’t dreaming, after all,” she said to herself, “unless – unless we’re all part of the same dream.”
Lewis Carroll, Through the Looking-Glass
Part I: Reflection
One
Sometimes it is better to take a man’s life than to let his sickness spread.
Oriana stands at the top of the tower, shivering in the chill breeze. Something twists inside her, sick and fearful; she takes one long breath, then another, trying to stop her hands shaking. The hilt of her mother’s jewelled dagger digs into her palm, but she does not dare loosen her grip. This is her last chance.
Sometimes it is better to take a man’s life than to let his sickness spread.
It was written by a healer. Like her mother. Like she herself once wanted to be. The subject of the book was the containment and treatment of plague. Not strictly relevant to her situation – but then, maybe cruelty can be a plague in itself.
One thing is certain: if she does not kill Ifor Darklight, she will forever be infected by his sickness. And, sooner or later, he will kill her.
Sometimes it is better …
The windows of the Citadel wink up at her, a hundred empty eyes. Behind them are the myriad stairways and passages of her home, the hidden ways and unexpected openings in which she delighted as a child. Bathed in the blue glow of the rain barrier, the stone walls seem lit by moonlight. Only when the Guardians decide the land is in need of water will the barrier fade, to reveal the true sky in shades of grey. Such is the gift bestowed by the Sapphire, her birthright, her inheritance. It is the Sapphire that prevents the rain from ruining crops and herdbeasts in the Citadel’s farms, that keeps defences intact and walls upright.
It was the Sapphire that brought Ifor to the Citadel, and to her.
Oriana does not want to remember how lucky she felt, when she first met him and realised that the old friend her father had talked about for so long was a young man with hair the colour of sunlight and a beautiful smile. How happy she was when they exchanged their betrothal rings; how willingly she gave herself to him even though they were not yet married. Those memories are like insects drowned in amber: preserved forever, yet lifeless. They hardly seem to belong to her at all.
And in between then and now lies the single jagged moment when the man she loved told her, in clear and precise detail, exactly how he killed her mother.
Sometimes it is better to take a man’s life than to let his sickness spread.
Turning her back on the blank stare of the windows, she crosses to the opposite parapet. Around her the night is gathering, with all the force of the west wind at its back. The wind of the dead, the Citadel people call it: carrying souls to the Void to await rebirth. For a moment, it leaves her breathless – but she shakes off the encroaching dizziness, glancing down at the dagger in her hand for reassurance. Just a bit longer, and then it will be over. He said he would be here before dark.
A horn blares, loud and long. Head swimming, I look up, to find a man gesticulating at me from behind the wheel of his rusty old car. I’m standing in the middle of the road.
But –
Wasn’t I just –
Alyssia Gale. I’m Alyssia Gale.
I’m not her.
I’m not Oriana.
I’m Alyssia Gale.
Part of me is still elsewhere, but I manage to return the driver’s rude gesture before stumbling to the pavement. The car accelerates past me, engine snarling, and dirty water sloshes against my heels. Great. One more for the Gale fan club.
Heart still racing, I close my eyes and take a deep breath through my nose. Smells often do what logic can’t. The places I conjure up in my head have a hundred different scents. Perfume and beeswax in the Citadel. Wet bark and rotting leaves in Luthan’s forest. Blood … Real life, on the other hand, smells mainly of exhaust fumes, bad cooking and body spray. Maybe that says more about the limited number of places I get to visit than it does about the world, but I’ll take it. I need some way to tell the difference between seeing and reality.
Just your overactive imagination, my first foster mother said. A head full of daydreams and nonsense, according to my second. My third said I was lying to get attention, but I think only half of that was true. I may be a liar, but I’ve never wanted anyone to notice me.
A bus pulls up to my stop, doors opening with a hiss and a clunk. Head down, I follow the other waiting passengers on, then find a place to sit as far away from them as possible. I dump my bag on the seat next to me, before jamming my earphones in place. The scar on my left palm is stinging again; I curl my fingers against it, rubbing the pain away. It was the only visible mark left on me by the accident that obliterated my parents. A thin white line that follows, almost exactly, what a palm reader would call my fateline.
As the bus rumbles into motion, I lean my head against the window. A row of grey-stuccoed houses slides past, one or two with windows illuminated against the dusk. The night is gathering. A man in a hooded waterproof coat is walking his curly-haired dog. The pavement is spattered with old gum and a few warning drops of rain. He said he would be here before dark. I’ve been down this road a hundred times before. I’ve lived in this town my whole life – or at least, the four years I can remember. Yet I can’t quite place where I am.
A sense of unreality crawls up my spine. Briefly I see other shapes, taller buildings, different stone – but I blink them away. Stop it, Alyssia. Not again.
Digging in my pocket, I turn up my music until it’s loud enough to hurt. This can’t happen. Not so soon after the last one. I have to stay in my own head.
Yet part of me wants to see …
My stomach twists. I duck my head and close my eyes, trying to focus on the here and now. The sore patch where one of my new school shoes has rubbed my heel. The scratch of fabric against my skin. The lurch of the bus as it halts at a stop, letting in more people and a rush of cold, damp air. The lyrics of the song in my ears. But it’s no use. Because Oriana is frightened. Oriana is in pain. And Oriana –
“Oriana.”
The voice sets her heart beating in rapid stabs. She turns, concealing the dagger in the ragged folds of her skirt. Ifor is standing at the top of the steps, smiling.
“My lord.” She hears the tremor in her words and breathes deeply, trying to suppress it. Sometimes she is so full of hatred, she can hardly stand it. For him. For the deference he has beaten into her. Most of all, for her own weakness. Because her hatred may be strong, but her terror is stronger.
It will end, she tells herself. As soon as the dagger cuts through his flesh, this shame will end.
“You wanted to see me?” she asks faintly.
“Yes, little one. I wanted to ask you a question.” He steps closer, one knuckle forcing her chin up until she meets his gaze. “Do you think me entirely oblivious?”
A cold shiver ripples through her. “N-no.”
“And yet, you tried to talk to your father again today.”
Oriana flinches. She knew it was a bad idea. Every time, she knows it. But even though her father’s absent gaze never fails to skate over her bruises – even though he replies to her most desperate pleading as if he is in another conversation entirely – she cannot help but try. Somehow she always hopes that this time, unlike all the others, he will perceive what is there in front of him, not merely what should be. If he could see her, really see her, for just a single moment –
But only Ifor’s deat
Now, she tells herself. Do it now. Their wedding is set for her sixteenth nameday, in nine days’ time; wait much longer and it will be too late. Her fingers tighten on the hidden dagger, and Ifor’s gaze flickers in that direction.
“I would reconsider, if I were you,” he says calmly. “You have earned enough punishment for one day.”
He knows. Of course he knows. So she does the only thing left to her, and drives the dagger towards him.
As soon as the tip of the blade touches the fabric of his shirt, her muscles seize up. She grits her teeth, willing all her strength into her right arm, but it is no use. The weapon will not move by even a hair’s breadth. She looks up, to find him watching her with amused contempt.
“Yet you did it anyway.” Effortlessly, he plucks the dagger from her grasp. “Stupid, although no more than I would have expected. Because I know you, Oriana. I have always known you.”
He has said those words before. He said them soon after their first meeting, gazing at her as if he saw and accepted every last dark corner she kept hidden from the world. She has learned better since then, but still there is something in them. A weight she struggles to understand.
She swings at him, wildly, with her left hand. He catches her wrist, fingers digging into her flesh, and her stomach plunges. Why did she ever think she could defeat him? He killed her mother without the slightest remorse and made it look like an accident, and in the end, he will do the same to her. The aberrant power he wields, a thing out of ancient myth, is stronger than any weapons she possesses.
“Just remember,” he says. “You brought this on yourself.”
Grip as cold and hard as steel, he wrenches her arm down. The dagger slashes across her palm, forcing a cry of pain from her lips.
“You are g-getting what you want,” she manages. “You are getting the Sapphire. Why – ”
“What I want? What I want is for you to make amends, Oriana.”
“For what?”
His gaze meets hers. “Everything.”
The old bronze bell in the Great Hall tolls one deep, warning note; above them, the translucent blue arc of the rain barrier fades into transparency. As the first drops begin to fall, Ifor raises her wounded hand, tracing the line of welling blood with his fingertip. He smiles, but there is a darkness behind his eyes. Anger. Sorrow.
He expects something from her. She has never understood what.
“Get up,” he says. Softly, like the whisper of a blade being drawn. “Onto the parapet.”
“I cannot – ” she begins, but he lifts a finger and the world dissolves in a red wash of agony. She doubles over, gasping and choking, only to be wrenched back upright.
“Do not argue with me. Get up there before I really hurt you.”
No words are left to her, and certainly no defences. As soon as the pain subsides, she scrambles onto the low wall, feet slipping on the stones. The day is dead now. All that remains is a sliver of grey on the horizon. She can no longer see the ground below.
“I will not let you die, little one. Not yet.” It is a murmur, part of the wind and the rain and the night. “But I cannot say, in all honesty, that I care what happens to you beyond that.”
“You will not b-break me,” she stammers, though she cannot tell through the ringing in her ears whether she is making any sound. “No matter what you – ”
With a single, violent shove, he pushes her off the tower.
I jolt back in my seat. Shaking all over. My fingers digging into the ugly brown-and-orange fabric to stop myself falling –
But I’m still on the bus. Of course I am. It still smells the same, muddy shoes and damp raincoats. And I …
I’ve missed my stop. Again.
The woman across the aisle is giving me a look. No wonder. I can feel the sudden sweat on my forehead. And I’m panting loud enough that she can probably hear me, even over the snore of the engine.
Alyssia Gale. I’m Alyssia Gale.
It’s darker outside, now. The day is dead. The rain is coming down harder. The wind and the rain and the night. I turn back towards the window, lurching, off balance, and stare into a girl’s wild, reflected eyes. Right. That’s me. Alyssia Gale. At least I know my own face.
The raindrops on the glass shine briefly, caught by the headlights of a car coming in the other direction. Beyond the window, the orange halo of each street lamp illuminates its own little patch of wet pavement. Light spills from the shop fronts, their signs proclaiming Sale and 50% Off and Final Reductions.
Real shops. Real rain. Real people walking home through the dark of a January evening with their umbrellas and gloves. No Citadel. No rain barrier. Just me, Alyssia Gale, riding the bus back from school to Woodleigh House, the only place I’ve stayed for longer than six months in the past four years.
Heart still pounding, I take deep breaths. One by one, I force my fingers to release their grip on the seat. It’s fine. It’s over. Nothing happened.
I hope Oriana is all right. The thought drops into my head from nowhere. Yet I mustn’t fall into that trap again. Even if I miss her happiness, even if part of me is clenched with guilt that I can’t do anything to help her … I have to focus on the real world. Letting myself feel emotion towards a figment of my own imagination isn’t healthy. I should know that by now.
Grabbing my bag, I ring the bell for the next stop. It’s going to be a long walk home.
Two
Sitting in the café across the street from school, I warm my hands on my half-full coffee cup and stare at the suspiciously oily plastic surface in front of me. They wipe the tables after every customer; I’ve seen them do it. But with grease on the tabletop, and grease on the cloth, and the smell of old, cooked grease in the air, the result isn’t clean so much as smeared.
Best coffee in town. I almost hear it: the enthusiasm, the cheerful elongation of the vowels, the genuine sigh of appreciation to round it all off. Peter Lampforth and sarcasm were always strangers to each other. My head lifts automatically, the start of a smile forming on my lips, but the chair on the other side of the table is empty. I just wish –
Forget it.
I unzip the inner pocket of my bag and fish out the piece of paper I came here to think about. It doesn’t look like much, but it contains a whole universe. Because I wrote it down. As much as I could remember of what I saw through Oriana’s eyes, yesterday evening.
It occurred to me last night, lying sleepless on my lumpy mattress – clinging to it with fingers and toes, an insufficient anchor to the real world – that perhaps I could record them. The visions. What I see. Maybe then I’d start to recognise the difference between reality and fantasy. Setting the words on paper, detaching myself from the experience, would surely relegate the whole thing to the realm of fiction.
Yet now, scanning through what I scribbled down at some point in the early hours of this morning, it isn’t just caffeine making my heart race and my gaze skitter around the room. There’s a reason I didn’t do this before. Because if anyone ever found it …
Slowly, I turn my head to stare out of the window at the building opposite. Lakeview Secondary School. Not that there’s a lake in sight. Lumped together from sullen shades of grey, it’s a dirty concrete box that would be indistinguishable from a prison, were it not for the lack of bars on the windows; one of those dull, shabby buildings that feels worn out almost as soon as it’s made. It’s separated from the road by iron railings, which are meant to look fancy but miss the mark by half a ton of rust, and an expanse of tarmac where the younger kids play ball after lunch. The sign on the gate reads Lakeview Secondary School: Educating Future Adults. Peter and I once spent a whole hour coming up with possible endings for it. Educating future adults in how to … smoke without getting caught. Write a half-assed essay the night before it’s due. Identify repulsive canteen food by smell alone.
I was sent here three and a half years ago, once I’d adjusted to life after the accident. As it turned out, I hadn’t adjusted well enough. I didn’t have full control. There are lots of people in my class who remember me sitting there trembling and staring at the wall, whispering I’m Alyssia Gale, I’m Alyssia Gale over and over again. With the frankness of utter naivety, I even told some of them about my imaginary friends.
