The Raie'Chaelia (Legend of the Raie'Chaelia, Book One 1) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Map of Naeo'Gaea

  Foreword

  Preface

  Prologue

  The Road to Branbury

  A Childhood Friend

  The Delphaline

  The Raie'Chaelia

  Flight into the Mountain

  The Huskamau

  Trouble in the High Pass

  White Beauty

  Woodrock

  Benjamin Graeystone

  Jezebelle's Gift

  The Life of the Terravail

  A Secret Passage

  The Cedarwood University

  A Narrow Escape

  The Quaie'Miren

  The Morning Dawn

  The Voyage to Auvergny

  Chainbridge

  The Lost City of Barenthren

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  About the Author

  Map of Naeo'Gaea

  Foreword

  The following story is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and events were fabricated by the author, from the author’s imagination. Any likeness to actual names, people, places, or events is purely coincidental.

  With the exception of citation in articles and reviews, this work may not be used, copied, reproduced, printed, forwarded, or circulated in any form without the express written permission of the author.

  Copyright 2011 by Melissa Douthit. All rights are reserved. Cover artwork by Brielle Porter and map artwork by Charles Nemitz.

  Preface

  On the morning of 21st of September, 2007, I sat down at my computer with a cup of coffee and clicked a familiar bookmark on my internet browser. The link took me to a website that I knew well. In doing so, I learned that one of my favorite authors had passed away. His name was James Oliver Rigney, Jr., also known as Robert Jordan. The website was www.dragonmount.com.

  Ever since I was seventeen, I have been reading his epic fantasy series, The Wheel of Time. I remember buying the first book, The Eye of the World, from a local bookstore and rushing home to read it. I remember it like it was yesterday. To this day, after twenty-one years, I am still reading his series as it quickly draws to a conclusion in its final completion by Brandon Sanderson.

  I never thought I could be a writer given that my talents lie in other areas, mostly in mathematics and science, but when I learned of Jordan’s passing, I decided to start writing a story that I had been tossing around in my head for a while. The ideas were there but the realization of those ideas into a book was a problem. I didn’t believe that I could do it. So, that morning, inspired by Jordan’s life story, I sat down and started typing. I soon found that by having read his books, as well as many others by other authors, the writing came naturally and the words flowed. The following novel is the result of that day.

  Now, years later, my first novel has been published. It is a novel with both a storyline and a background theme. The ideas for the story were conceived out of a desire to write a fantasy that was different from any other I had read in the past. The entire story required a few years to fully develop, but I believe I have achieved my original intention — keeping it different. I am hoping that you, its reader, will feel that difference and love it.

  Thank you for reading my story. I hope you enjoy it.

  Very Respectfully,

  Melissa Douthit

  In Memoriam

  James Oliver Rigney, Jr.

  October 17, 1948 to September 16, 2007

  A good man and a great writer

  May he rest in peace

  Prologue

  Waves pounded the shoreline, spraying mist into the wind that stirred white sands glittering in the moonlight. A dark ship with dark sails, anchored in the reef, swayed with the movement of the water and the wind. In the distance, black, threatening thunder clouds roiled in the sky over the ocean, hurling fierce lightning bolts through the rain. It was a magnificent storm that was swiftly approaching.

  From the glistening beach, moist air blew upwards, carrying the ocean’s salt toward a towering cliff. Wind in the subterranean caverns that wove deeply into the heart of the land whistled a musical sound that echoed through the winding passages, falling just short of discovering underground secrets that were lost to the ages. Outside, the sea spray floated up the side of a cliff that ended at the foot of colossal walls of a great, white palace. Constructed of a series of concentric towers, the palace was resplendent, even in the night. The constant touch of wind, sand, and water never dulled its shine.

  The salty mist came to settle upon an ominous scene in the inner garth of the keep, the highest structure. On the dais, in the middle of the courtyard, lay a fair-haired, bearded man chained to a marble altar. A man in black stood just above him facing the front of a ring of spectators lingering in the shadows. The man in black was tall and broad, with thick black hair sleeked back from his brow and dark eyebrows that slanted menacingly. He appeared anxious. His eyes combed the light of the torches that spotted the mantlet wall of the ward, as if he were looking for minute cracks in it that held the answer.

  The man on the altar appeared calm, but his fatigue, to his great relief, could mask even his fear. He was dressed in white robes. It seemed that at least his captors had allowed him that. It was small thing, but a blessing, for the marble was cold … and the night was cold …

  I am such a fool! he thought to himself, as he lay there helpless, reflecting upon his mistakes and his regrets, pondering the string of betrayals that had led to this moment. There was nothing he could do about them now. Yet, he couldn’t help but dwell on them, asking himself the same questions he had asked a million times before. Why did I ever lock it away so carelessly? I should never have taken it off. His thoughts taunted him. Why did I let Braywin study something so dangerous, even for the most skilled of the Readers? Sighing, he answered himself. A father’s love, I suppose, but I could have stopped her from the same folly. He sighed again. A husband’s love. He worried about his wife. Alaenia, wherever you are, stay there! Do not return to the palace.

  He turned his head toward the man in black. “You will never get away with this, Lucce. You know that. It cannot be done,” he rasped. His intense blue eyes blazed with an icy rage that he was too weak to physically muster.

  Lucce glanced down, temporarily interrupted from his vigilant anticipation, the torchlight dancing devilishly across his face. He glared at the chained man with hateful eyes, dark and full of scorn, shimmering with a red gleam of fire. They wanted to burn what they saw before them.

  “Quiet, Duquaine,” he said with a smugness that masked his apprehension. Lucce looked up again, searching, scanning the courtyard for any sign of movement. “We’ve heard enough from you, I think. Now that it comes to me, I should have done this first,” he hissed as the blood red stone hanging from the cord around his neck shone brilliantly in the darkness, bathing the scene in an ominous red light.

  Duquaine tried to call him a traitor, but his head straightened, forcing his face upwards to peer into the deepness of the night, and then he felt his jaw and hands freeze. He could no longer move any part of his body except his eyes. Chained down, unable to move at all, he regretted his decision to protest. He should have kept silent. At least he had been able to move his hands. He could have used them to escape, somehow. But now it was too late. He was bound.

  From a distance, a rapid pounding of feet hit the marble floor announcing Ivan’s arrival. He had been sent to the watch tower to wait for Vlaad’s return and instructed to inform Lucce at once.

  Was he back? Duquaine wondered. Did he find it? Then, with a shudder, he
thought: No, he couldn’t have. It was hidden. Only the gatekeepers had access and they could never relinquish it. They would die. They were sworn to it, after all, so they knew they would die if they tried to betray the Council. No, they could be trusted, he reassured himself.

  Although still unwilling to give up hope, he was disillusioned. For he had trusted Lucce once. He remembered. Thought him his best friend to whom he had trusted his life. Of course, he was sworn too, Lucce. All of the Terravail were. It was law. But if Vlaad had succeeded, Duquaine would be sent away forever. No one in the Realm had the power or the knowledge of how to return him.

  What will happen to my family? My people? He could hear his children a few paces away, struggling in their bonds as the city’s clock tower slowly tolled midnight. His forehead beaded with sweat and his heart began to race …

  “He has returned, my Lord,” Ivan said as he scrambled to the first step and bowed down low. He was an unctuous, obsequious little toady, short and squat with dirty brown, matted hair and a chubby, pockmarked face. Duquaine could never tolerate him. He wondered why he had never dismissed him before when he had had the chance. He might have avoided this whole mess.

  The slow clop of heavy boots rang out and Ivan looked up toward the west end. Vlaad was like a mountain, tall, broad, and dressed in black mail with the Red Flame of Maalda across his chest. The watchers made a path through their numbers, eager to let him pass. He strode with the grace and air of a king, but his black eyes shone with intentions that were anything but kingly. His dark hair and hooded, black cloak tossed in the night wind as he approached his master, holding his helmet with one arm and a dark leather sack with the other. Just above, black clouds rolled over the palace menacingly, their thunder roaring. The storm was here.

  “It went well?” Lucce said, as more of a command than a question.

  “More than well, my Lord,” Vlaad replied calmly, with a smile that curled his perfect lips.

  “How did you do it?” Lucce was curious. He had faith in Vlaad, more than any other, but he had had his doubts, too. In the deep recesses of his mind, he worried that Duquaine was right, that it couldn’t be done. After his bird had returned with the message, however, he knew there was no more to fear. It could happen that night.

  “Captured his son. So, he had a choice. His son’s life or his own.” He held up the sack. “You can see which one he took.”

  “Excellent. And the boy?”

  “I am sorry, my Lord, but I deemed it …” he paused, searching for the appropriate word, “imprudent, to let survive a son that may one day seek to avenge his father. I am sorry.”

  “No, do not be sorry,” Lucce said in a low voice. “It was well done. You see, I am glad I set this task to you. You knew exactly what to do.”

  “I thank you, my Lord,” Vlaad said with a slight bow.

  “Now, hand it to me,” Lucce commanded. “I want to finish this.”

  There was a brief pause and a faint rustling. Above him, Duquaine saw two hands exchange a dark object. The strong hand with long fingers seized it impatiently and placed it above Duquaine’s heart.

  “And so, Duquaine, we shall see, who is right and who is worse than dead,” Lucce said with contempt as his muscled forefinger pressed the dark green stone firmly into Duquaine’s chest, while his own crimson stone glowed yet again.

  He muttered something incomprehensible and it all happened at once. The palace shook as if the land trembled beneath it. Thunder rumbled and lightning struck down. In a powerful flash, a thin disk of bright emerald light radiated from the dark stone, outward in all directions, flowing through anything in its path, and then … Duquaine was gone.

  The force of it knocked the crowd off its feet. The chains that had held him fell with a loud clang to the surface of the altar. Everyone slowly rose from the ground as drops of rain began to pour down upon them. There were gasps of astonishment from the unbelievers and a few cheers from the Draaquans. The muffled sobs of two children issued from a dark corner of the courtyard, as maniacal laughter echoed down the empty halls of the keep.

  … Many months later …

  It was freezing. The latch of the front gate was like ice on her fingers as she lifted it and let herself into the courtyard that she knew so well. Light from the cottage windows reflected off the icicles, glimmering into the trees and onto the blanket of white that covered the ground. The snow, untouched except for her footsteps, sparkled as if multi-colored glitter had been strewn across it.

  In the distance, she could hear the bells of the tower ringing in the holiday cheer and songs of merry-making well-wishers going about their business of gift-giving as so many of their ancestors had done for generations past. The smell of chimney smoke beckoned her longingly to come inside where it was warm and stay to enjoy the holiday season with family. She wished she could take part, though she knew she couldn’t. She had responsibilities to tend. The most precious of them was in the small bundle that she cradled in her arms.

  Quiet as a mouse, she made her way to the front door where she placed the bundle. Taking a letter from her pocket, she thought of one last thing. She removed the golden ring from her right hand and placed it into the envelope.

  “My gift to you,” she whispered and laid the envelope on top. As she straightened, the door opened and candlelight and warmth flooded the dark porch. A stout man with a grey beard emerged, puffing a pipe. His expression remained calm as he stared at her and the bundle at her feet. She looked into his eyes pleadingly. He nodded. When she saw that he understood, she raised her hand to say goodbye and he returned the gesture. Then, slowly, reluctantly, she turned to leave. The old man gathered the bundle and closed the door carefully, watching her as she left. A hot tear burned down her frozen cheek as she trudged back across the path that she had made in the snow and wondered if she would ever see them again.

  The Road to Branbury

  Chalice heeled Sunny down the cool, dark road. It was early and morning mist covered the leaves of the thick forest with drops of dew that sparkled in the God rays peeking through the treetops. Chirping birds and scuffling forest animals, seeking their first meal of the day, slowly broke the silence of the dawn.

  He was a good horse, Sunny, given to her by her grandfather, Papa, before she left Canton Run. However, he did occasionally need a nudge or two when he pretended to be spooked by something unknown to her lurking in the shadows. She had to admit, though, that there was something odd about this place that she sought so desperately. It gave her a strange feeling.

  A few paces further, the path brought them out of the knot of trees into a breezy clearing. She winced as she looked up at the horizon into the blue sky and was met by a bright beam of sunlight. As she gazed to the left, she saw a wide, green meadow, brilliantly dotted with white daisies, which sloped gently upward toward the peak of Mount Vaassa. To the right, a sharp cliff rendered a breathtaking view of the valley. It was the northernmost section of the Auramont Vale and barely visible through the low cloud cover that shrouded the land.

  She was almost there. She knew. She could feel it. Would he be there? Does he have what I was sent for? she wondered. Reaching down into her saddlebag, she pulled out a piece of bread and cheese that she gnawed hungrily. She was running low and would need to stop in the village for provisions before heading to Nathaniel’s farm. Papa had given her plenty of money that she kept tucked away in her bag: a bulging leather purse of fifty gold coronals, thirty-five silver sterlings, and twenty copper pence. That should be enough for a while, she thought.

  “You must go to the village of Branbury on the outskirts of Auramont. There is a man, Nathaniel Maehbeck. He has something to give you. He will know what to do. It is essential that you listen to him and follow his instructions. Go.” These were the last words she had heard him say before he had her hoisted up onto Sunny, her bags hastily packed, and slapped the horse on the rear, sending him into an immediate gallop.

  The King’s men had already seized control of Ca
nton and the smoke from the fires had burned her eyes as she fled into the night. She recalled that as Sunny had launched forward at full speed, she had managed to glance back. Before reaching the protection of the trees, she had seen her grandfather heading off toward the pigeon cage. He must have been going to send a message, she thought. But to whom? Now, she wasn’t even sure if he was still alive. She tried not to think about it.

  It was amazing, actually, that she had made it this far. Though, he had taught her well: how to track, find food when coin ran out, stay warm in the cold, and most of all, stay out of sight and keep silent while traveling. It kept her alive. Had he known he would someday send her off on her own, on a quest of which she knew absolutely nothing until now? Not that she knew that much about it. Find a man named Nathaniel and follow his instructions. That was it so far.

  And so she had headed east. She knew Auramont was in that general direction from Canton. Using the old map Papa had tossed into her bag, she found her way through Blackburn forest, just south of the Darrenfell Moor, through the Plains of Chauma to the Trui’Quirré Mountains, the path through which she had to negotiate carefully. It skirted the edge of the Praeceps and at the bottom rested a series of razor sharp rocks with which she did not want to become too familiar.

  The Praeceps were the steepest cliffs in Naeo’Gaea and provided the only way to pass through the mountains. The Trui’Quirré, or the Three Peaks, were so high, it was impossible to reach the top and survive. On the other side of the mountains, lay Auramont and Branbury was located to the east of Mount Vaassa which was an ancient mountain, the oldest in the chain.

  Of course, many of the names on the map that she had were written in the language of old, which was spoken before the beginning of the New Millennium. She could hardly imagine what life must have been like for those who had survived the era before it, living mostly underground to escape the chill of a winter that had lasted for eons. She remembered Papa’s bedtime stories by the fireside and his instruction in Angaulic, the language spoken by those who lived during the Ice Age. He taught her everything he knew, except the story of her past.