Glimmer of Steel (The Books of Astrune Book 1) Read online

  Glimmer of Steel

  The Books of Astrune

  K. E. Blaski

  Mollusc Bay Books

  FRANKFORT, ILLINOIS

  Copyright © 2017 by K. E. Blaski.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

  Mollusc Bay Books, an imprint of

  Slug Pie Stories, LLC

  8126 West Evergreen Drive

  Frankfort, IL 60423

  www.MolluscBayBooks.com

  www.SlugPieStories.com

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Book Layout © 2017, BookDesignTemplates.com

  Cover design © 2016, FionaJaydeMedia.com

  Glimmer of Steel/ K. E. Blaski. -- 1st ed. Kindle

  ISBN 978-0-9963325-7-6

  to Mrs. Munroe, and teachers everywhere

  who first open the door to possibility

  CONTENTS

  PART 1

  CHAPTER ONE THE PLAN

  CHAPTER TWO ARGATHE

  CHAPTER THREE URION

  CHAPTER FOUR THE EXPERIMENT

  CHAPTER FIVE THE EXCHANGE

  CHAPTER SIX MADAM MEILYN

  CHAPTER SEVEN THE FAMILY

  CHAPTER EIGHT THE PUNISHMENT

  CHAPTER NINE THE WEDDING

  CHAPTER TEN NOBLE TORTARE

  CHAPTER ELEVEN THE ANSWER

  CHAPTER TWELVE FAVORS

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN MARCIS Balázs

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN NYIMA’S ROOM

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN CORALEE

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN THE COUNCIL OF SCIENTISTS

  PART 2

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN FLYING MACHINES

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN THE REPRIMAND

  CHAPTER NINETEEN THE BARGAIN

  CHAPTER TWENTY THE SIX POISONS

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE AUNT KORNELIA

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO THE TRIBE OF CIDRA

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE THE PROPOSAL

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR THE GIFT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE FURTI

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX THE DUNGEONS

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN SIGN SONG

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT THE TRUTH

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE THE HAREM

  CHAPTER THIRTY THE FLIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE THE CONFESSION

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO THE DECISION

  PART 3

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE UNREST

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR THE QUESTION

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE RESOLVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX THE SWORD OF URION

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN THE SILVER GIRL

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT FORGIVENESS

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE THE THIRD POISON PLUS ONE DROP

  CHAPTER FORTY ESPERANCE VALLEY

  PART 1

  Carry me past the Sea of Undine

  Where the salt pillars stand ’gainst a fiery sky

  Over the edge of the world I’ll sail

  To a place I can finally lie, lie, lie

  To a place I can finally lie.

  Carry me through Mount Telerune

  Where the wind cloaks my fear like a lover’s sigh

  Over the edge of the world I’ll climb

  To a place I can finally lie, lie, lie

  To a place I can finally lie.

  Carry me over the langor fields

  Where Aprica’s warmth makes a man’s spirit fly

  Over the edge of the world I’ll run

  To a place I can finally lie, lie, lie

  To a place I can finally lie.

  – Old Tovar Camp Song

  DAMEN

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE PLAN

  Damen had two days, five hours, and twenty-two minutes left to save Nyima’s soul. He had to hurry. His sandals slapped the spiraled stairs and heralded his arrival.

  Before him, Nyima gazed over the edge of the North Tower, immobile as if carved from the turret stone itself. The scarred and seething city sprawled below. The sharp scent of brine carried on the night winds, but underneath, rot and blight leached into the city’s pores. Durand, one of the twelve spired cities, and the only one that bordered the Sea of Undine, lost its soul when Noble Tortare inherited the throne.

  Damen would not lose Nyima to him too.

  He cleared his throat, but she didn’t turn. She ignored him on purpose, no doubt. His fingers, numb from clenching, unfurled in her presence, and the blood flowed. With each passing moment, he felt more alive. The wind lashed at her black hair, the cloth of her robes billowed and rippled. Mostly he stared at her skin. Like a rose about to burst into bloom, the skin always gave a Rosen princess away.

  When they were children, Nyima had told him stories of how her people would try to hide the Rosen girls when they came of age, coating their daughters’ darkening skin in dyes, powders, even mud. They’d do anything to protect the girls from rogues who were drawn to the skin like hawks to their prey. Men who could take what they pleased—like Noble Tortare, who would take Nyima as his wife in two days, five hours, and twenty-one minutes.

  He couldn’t wait a moment longer. Putting his timepiece back in his pocket, he inhaled deeply, readying himself to say the speech he’d practiced all day. But the words caught on his tongue, and instead he watched, transfixed, as she climbed onto the rim of the tower. Her outstretched arms fascinated him. The sleeves of her robes flapped like wings.

  Her foot slipped and she swayed near the stone edge, jolting him from his trance. “Nyima, no!” He crossed the North Tower in an instant, crushing her body to his as she flailed.

  “Let go!” She pummeled his chest with her fists, but he wouldn’t yield, his determination stronger than hers. She crumpled in his arms.

  “Shh, shh.” He stroked her hair, cradling her, and a current of desire passed from her skin into his. He quickly pulled away and sat where he couldn’t reach her so easily, waiting for his pounding heart to slow. He hated when her skin got hold of his senses and made him lose control. She was his best friend—not his lover. A warm breeze dried the sheen of sweat off his face, and his desire cooled.

  “It’s worse now,” she said. “Today, soldiers took away Prashir. You remember Prashir? The seamstress fitting my wedding robe? She took off her gloves, ripped away my veil, and tried to kiss me. She wept when they dragged her away. I haven’t seen her since. Noble probably fed her body to the hawks.”

  Nyima turned her gaze back to Durand. Taros and Candria, full and brilliant in the starless sky, bathed her face in moonlight.

  “Months in this prison, and every night Noble’s breath thunders through the walls and his teeth gnash like knives. Up here he leaves me alone. I don’t think he can fit through the stairwell.” She threw back her head and laughed, high-pitched and desperate, a painful sound.

  Damen’s heart ached when Nyima acted so hopeless. She used to be filled with light and laughter. He remembered when he’d snuck her in to see the carnival. How she’d giggled at the acrobats and squealed at the flame eaters. He’d return her to the way she w
as. He knew he could do it. He had to.

  “You should let me jump, Damen. I waited for you, so you could tell Noble what I did—and why.” She turned to him, her eyes dull like a caged animal’s, her features etched in deep mauve, nearly maroon at the top of her cheekbones. “I want to die,” she pleaded.

  He fought himself to keep from grabbing her and shaking some sense into her. Sliding even farther away, he waited for the urge to pass. He had to keep his wits before that skin of hers betrayed them both. No wonder Noble Tortare let her hide out here. The tower tucked her out of sight of the servants and visitors who desired her. Even the soldiers guarding her looked relieved when she chose to spend time on the roof, as far from other people as possible.

  Damen’s stomach churned, remembering the public torture of Landan Aliud. The soldier had taken off his gloves to touch Nyima’s cheek when the tie on her mask had snapped, revealing her face. Noble didn’t even bother to consume Landan’s soul, preferring instead to skin him alive so he’d be aware of what was happening to him. The process had taken a long time. Noble’s army and staff had gotten the message.

  Except for Damen. He wouldn’t stay away, no matter the threat of punishment. Nyima was the only friend he had in this world. He wouldn’t lose her. He had a plan to save her.

  If only he could execute the plan tonight. She must be suffering so to even consider taking her own life. No Rosen princess had ever—would ever—kill herself. The greatest of sins. Eternal damnation for herself and all her kin. A shiver slid down his spine. He had to reassure her.

  “I saw the other wives today. Helped feed them bits of langor bread.” Nyima slumped against the wall. “I’ll be one of them soon. Catatonic. They’ve spittle on their chins, their tongues flopping. Their flesh is gray and foul. Worst of all is their eyes. One came right up to me like she could see me, but her eyes . . . dead. White film covered them. Horrible.”

  He’d seen the harem before, on a tour of the castle. Noble dressed them in gemstones and silk, displayed them like prizes before the city officials. At least ten of them, former Rosen princesses, the wives of Noble Tortare, each woman’s soul devoured by her husband on her wedding night. One every year, to ensure Noble’s power, to keep the cities united and safe under his reign. Sacrifices for the greater good. Well, Noble would have his Rosen sacrifice. But she would not be Nyima.

  Nyima rose, spun on her heels, and faced him. “How tall do you think the langor fields are now?”

  “Higher than the head of a bos.” He knew where her conversation was taking him, and he stared at the grit-laden ground, unable to meet her gaze.

  Her capture had been his fault. He’d persuaded her to come out to the fields. Such a beautiful day had begged to be enjoyed. She’d been cooped up in her father’s cottage for weeks as her skin matured, deepening from a blush pink to the dark rose she wore tonight. He’d brought her field-picked flowers and a glossy stone warm from Aprica’s rays. After days of enduring Damen’s pestering, she’d finally consented.

  “Miles of stalks and feathered leaves will hide us,” or at least that’s what he’d said to entice her to follow him farther away from home. For an hour or more, it was true.

  He hadn’t known the soldiers had brought the hawks.

  While Nyima lay on the warm ground next to him, they spoke of their futures: his dreams of becoming a teacher to the Tovar youth, her dreams of settling in Casilda as a shopkeeper. Spikes of golden langor feathers danced in the breeze above them. Aprica kissed their faces and outstretched arms—and the hawks found them.

  They heard the creatures screaming before they saw them swooping from the sky. Damen dragged Nyima to her feet. They fled amid screeching and flapping. The hawks—mechanical wings of steel fused to their hairless bodies, shrunken faces wrinkled in rage—overtook them within seconds. They fired tiny poisoned arrows, thin as needles, which pierced Nyima’s back and shoulders. She collapsed to the ground, and the hawks circled overhead, howling for their masters.

  The soldiers didn’t want Damen. He hid behind the langor stalks, terror strangling his voice and tying his hands, while he watched his friend carried off like a sack of grain. If he’d interfered, they’d have killed him, or worse. One armored soldier could break him in half, and three had followed the hawks into the field. Still more would be waiting in the road. Would she think better of him if he had died defending her? The soldiers would’ve taken her anyway, while his blood soaked the ground.

  “I’m sorry,” he managed to say to her now.

  “Don’t be,” she said. “It was inevitable. My death . . . inevitable. Either by my hands or by his, or . . .” She clasped her hands as if in prayer. “You do it, Damen. You’ve known me all my life; as my friend, you should end my life. Push me over the edge. Help me die.”

  “No! I can save you. I have a plan.” He stretched his hand out toward her, and his fingers tingled.

  She backed away this time.

  “I have to remember to take the inhibitor tomorrow night,” he said. “Sometimes I forget what happens when I’m close to you, when you’re in this . . . condition. The risk.”

  “Yes, the risk.” She wrapped her arms around herself even though the night air cloaked them both in sweat. “Why didn’t you take it tonight?”

  “Sometimes . . . I believe I have enough willpower.”

  “That’s the mistake everyone makes. Make sure you always take the potion.”

  His breath came more easily as he watched Nyima lean against the tower’s rim, her body relaxed, her gaze fixed on him. Nyima wouldn’t leap to her death. Not now. He’d obviously piqued her interest when he’d offered her an escape.

  “This plan of yours, does it involve peeling this cursed skin from my body? Or perhaps you’ve built me a flying machine and you’re going to spirit me away?” Her voice dropped, a tone he recognized: far from amused.

  “This isn’t a bedtime tale,” he said. “Your first idea is closer to the truth.” In the light of the twin moons, he saw a spark of hope in her eyes. “You’re paying attention?”

  “Yes.”

  He squashed his doubt, his persistent feeling that his plan was flawed; his fear that, in order to save Nyima, he’d damn them both from Aprica’s light forever. But she was all he had left. He had no choice. It was time to tell her.

  “My plan is to remove your soul from your body and place it safely into another. Her soul, the soul of the other girl, will release into your body. Then Noble will have what he wants, the twelve cities will have the sacrifice they need, and you . . . you will be free.”

  Nyima displayed none of the reactions he’d anticipated. When he’d practiced this moment in his mind, she’d squealed with delight and congratulated his brilliance. Instead, she now reached for him and fingered the Tovar symbol on his robe. “You’re lying.” A laugh burst from behind her pursed lips. “You’ve learned to lie.”

  A ridiculous statement. He couldn’t lie to her. Not that he would, but a Tovar was incapable of deceit. It was the reason Noble Tortare valued his service, and why Damen had approached him for employment after Nyima’s capture. He couldn’t lie, and he could tell when others did. His gift and his own curse. His truth had already condemned dozens to suffering and death in just his few short months as a member of Noble Tortare’s court. And now he wore the golden symbol: labeled so all would know what he was.

  “You know better,” he said once her laughter subsided. “You need to trust me.”

  “My turn to apologize, Damen—you must admit your plan sounds mad. But let’s pretend for a minute it’s possible. This other girl, will she know what’s happening?”

  “I don’t know.” There was the dilemma. What about the other girl? Again, he pushed his uneasiness deep into the caverns of his mind. He didn’t dare think about anything or anyone but Nyima and himself. “We can’t worry about her. She’s a sacrifice; she gives her life for you.”

  “Don’t call it a gift, Damen. Call it what it is: murder.”

&n
bsp; He winced at her word, then, with the ease that comes with practice, turned remorse inside out until it was a small, cold stone, easily buried. “I don’t see it that way. Noble Tortare’s the murderer. It’s his fault we have to do this. His responsibility.” He spat out the rest. “And the people. Demanding he take another Rosen woman, so they can sleep safe for another season cycle. They are accountable too.” At last he was satisfied. The truth of his words rang in the moist air.

  “I suppose you’re right.” But she didn’t look at him when she spoke. “To do this thing you’ve planned . . . you’ve learned the dark science?” She paused, considering. “No. Your mother.”

  Hearing Argathe referred to as his mother squeezed his heart. He drove his fingernails into his palms. “She’s no one’s mother now. Argathe passed all her tests. She belongs to the Order of Enau.”

  “She’s done this before?”

  A question he hoped Nyima wouldn’t ask, because he had to tell her the truth. “Not successfully.”

  “Why will this time be different?”

  “She’s learned from her mistakes.”

  Nyima nodded, as though she believed his response was reasonable, but she had no choice but to believe him. “And Noble Tortare.” She grimaced. “Will he notice a difference?”

  “How could he? You’re another Rosen girl like any other he’s taken. He wants the soul attached to the skin; he doesn’t care whose soul it is.”

  “True.”

  “Take this carbon.” He placed the smooth rock on the edge of the tower instead of handing it to her, and then checked his timepiece one more time. “For the transfer, you have to hold the carbon tomorrow night in this exact place, five hours from this exact time.”

  She glanced at the rock. “That’s it?”

  “For you . . . yes.”

  She took the rock, and nodded.

  He had one more question. The question he’d practiced the most. “Once it’s done and you’re in your new body, will you find me? I won’t recognize you at first.”