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  The Legends of Dhanen’Mar

  Auguries of Dawn

  Volume 1

  Copyright ©2012 by Peyton Reynolds

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  Cover Art by Christas Vengel

  Cover Design by Peyton Reynolds

  Cartography by Josephe T. Vandel, Arden-Maps

  Dedication

  Lyrics to “Angus and the Swan” used with permission by

  Liv Kristine Espenaes Krull/Leaves’ Eyes.

  The author wishes to thank the members of Leaves’ Eyes for

  allowing the magic of their music to be a part of this world.

  A special thanks to Sherri Gurski; friend, editor,

  and overall sounding board. Thank you for

  accompanying me on this journey.

  Table of Contents

  Map

  The Patrons

  Prologue

  Part 1: Ardin’s Pride

  Part 2: Homecoming

  Part 3: The King’s Challenge

  The Patrons Extended Index

  Character Index

  The Music of Dhanen’Mar

  Books by Peyton Reynolds

  Map

  The Patrons

  Anniah – Patron of Justice. Dominion: First-day.

  Micka – Patron of Harvest. Dominion: Second-day.

  Stahl – Patron of War. Dominion: Third-day.

  Jardin – Patron of Travelers. Dominion: Fourth-day.

  Suzumu – Patron of Harmony. Dominion: Fifth-day.

  Rizea – Patron of Revenge. Dominion: Sixth-day.

  Ehle – Patron of Destiny. Dominion: Seventh-day.

  Ozvald – Patron of Commerce. Dominion: Eighth-day.

  Katrien – Patron of Thieves. Dominion: Ninth-day.

  Arawn – Patron of Chaos. Dominion: Tenth-day.

  Zalis – Patron of Healing. Dominion: Eleventh-day.

  Ardin – Patron of Arts. Dominion: Twelfth-day.

  Dauphinee - Patron of Love. Dominion: Thirteenth-day.

  Eris – Patron of Magic. Dominion: Fourteenth-day.

  Cristiana – Patron of Death. Dominion: Fifteenth-day.

  At the time of birth, each mortal is presented with their Birth Medallion, depicting to which of the fifteen Patrons they were born. For their entire lives, this medallion must be worn and be plainly visible at all times. The penalty for not doing so is death.

  Once an individual has reached their fifteenth birthing-day, they are permitted to select their Choice Patron. This medallion is displayed at the discretion of its wearer, and while many reveal its information freely, others choose to keep its knowledge hidden. The only exception to this is the mages, who have their own sets of rules regarding these matters.

  The combination of a person’s Birth and Choice Patrons then act together to heavily influence the course of their life.

  To make one’s Choice Patron the same as their Birth Patron, one will either gain great fortune in their chosen dominion or suffer madness. Consequently, very few risk making this choice.

  For more on the Patrons, see extended index.

  * A Note on Time

  Fifteen days comprise a week, six weeks to a season, twenty-four weeks to a year. The seasons mark the divisions of the year. For example, one would say, “It is Fourth-day of summer’s fifth week.”

  Ninety minutes = one hour. Fifteen hours per day.

  Prologue

  Four days past marked the tenth year of her imprisonment. Ten years of fear, of helplessness, of the bitterest hatred. Ten years’ worth of wondering if this would be the day he finally killed her. And ten years of plotting what she would do should she ever manage to get free. She knew the day so precisely because four days ago, the Sixth-day of spring’s second week, had been her birthing-day—and they had taken her the very day she’d turned eight.

  Reagan Maves, Dhan’Marian-born but kept here in the country of Jennen these many long years, now extracted her hand from beneath the last hen, placed the two eggs she’d captured into her basket, and moved to exit the shed that served as their small coop. The outside air was cool and damp, the dawn gray, dull and cloud-laden. Her blue eyes gave the skies before her a quick, mindless glance as she started for the modest wooden dwelling that served as home to her master and as prison to herself, when suddenly she pulled up short. Her head cocked slightly to the right, listening.

  Still paused, her eyes moved again to take in the two sights which had halted her so abruptly. Upon closer inspection of both, her initial suspicions were confirmed and her mind began to race frantically, stretching back in search of knowledge bequeathed to her during her long-ago and barely-remembered childhood. Separately, neither of the occurrences she was now taking in would have been enough to catch her

  attention—but together, their combined presence sounded a faint yet unmistakable chord within her.

  She remained unmoving, her wicker basket of eggs now hanging slack in her hand, her eyes continuing to move back and forth from one image to the other. And then, she grasped it, the knowledge suddenly filling her consciousness with all the subtlety of a slap. Despite her ten years of isolation here in Jennen, far from any other Dhan’Marians, the childhood years in her homeland prevailed and the knowledge she’d dredged to the surface now infused her. Although commonly mocked and ridiculed by those born to other countries, Dhan’Marians held their legends and superstitions as sacred, their portents and myths an accepted and undisputed way of life. There was no exception to this among their race—even if the one in question had been just a small girl of six, curled upon her mother’s lap and listening as a pages-long list of auguries and omens was recited to her.

  Reagan finally moved, turning sharply to her right so that she faced the great, leafy apple tree sitting between the coop and the house. Upon one of the tree’s lower branches sat a rook, and with its yellow eyes the bird seemed to be regarding her no less intently than she was it. As it stared, the rook cawed, again and again.

  She acknowledged its observance and then turned once more. Now, she faced east, the sun a pale ball in the clouds before her. Rolling meadows, the vibrant green of early spring, rose and fell in every direction, the stunning hill country of lower Jennen. And riding toward her, upon the sole dirt laneway coming from the nearest chain of small towns, was a man, a lonesome rider keeping a pace suggesting he was in no hurry.

  A cawing rook that locked gazes.

  Combined with the approach of a lone man with the dawn at his back.

  Reagan felt a sudden, excited bubbling begin in her stomach, and a queer light-headedness pervaded her mind. Also came another feeling, one she had not experienced in years and one that took her a few quick moments to recognize. She identified it as hope.

  For those two occurrences, happening in conjunction, was but one of the hundreds of auguries and omens honored by the people of Dhanen’Mar. Foretold to her now was the promise of good fortune brought by abrupt and great change—and one that would occur before the sun sank into dusk this very day.

  Continuing to eye the approaching rider, she wondered if his presence here was only to act as harbinger, or if he actually had some role to play in what was soon to manifest. Not that it mattered to her—not so long as these days of degradation and debasement were finally about to reach an end, as she was now certain they were. The precise way of it was not a great concern.

  She could now hear her master shouting at her t
hrough the open kitchen window. He wanted his breakfast, and so where in all the Chasms of Fire was she with his eggs? His voice came to her distantly, barely registering in her mind, and she chose to ignore it. Typically, such a decision would earn her a lashing, or perhaps even a broken bone or two. But not this day. Today, she had no fear, for the signs did not lie.

  Reagan began to walk forward, completely shutting out the sound of louder and more insistent shouting from her master. The rider had by now drawn much nearer, and she moved to meet him. She was forced to halt her steps several paces back from the road, and there, she waited.

  The approaching stranger was astride a strong-looking brown steed, the horse tall and well-groomed. The saddle and bridle looked much more well-worn, bordering on downright shabby. The combination struck her as odd, for anyone able to afford such an animal should not have had a problem outfitting it properly.

  As for the rider himself, she was now able to note that he was younger than she first would have guessed. Older than herself by perhaps only five or so years, he carried a dark look despite his rather pleasing features, causing a twinge of unease to ripple through her briefly. He was dark of hair, tall and fit, with the snug cut of his worn overcoat making it clear that he carried a fighting man’s physique. It was also clear by this time that he was indeed headed to the house where she dwelt with her master, and she briefly wondered what business the two men could have together. Was the stranger a fellow raider, perhaps? For such was not an uncommon profession here in southern Jennen, and he certainly looked as though he knew how to use the sword strapped to his side. But maybe he was a relative, or simply a traveler looking for work. There were many of this sort out upon the roads these days as well. Curious but silent, Reagan continued to watch him as he drew his horse to a halt before her and dismounted.

  He was even taller than she’d presumed—at least half a head taller than she, and she would not be considered a short woman in either Jennen or Dhanen’Mar. She’d been correct regarding his look, although while dark, she saw upon closer inspection that it did not appear unkind. His brown eyes were taking her in with mild curiosity, not in the manner that her master’s friends often did, but in a way that bespoke of only mild curiosity.

  “I am looking for a man who goes by the name of Hurl Bestry,” he said, not taking his eyes from hers. His voice was deep, low-toned and direct as he went on. “I have good reason to believe he resides in this area.”

  Reagan’s own gaze was unwavering as she replied.

  “It appears fortune has favored you this dawn, stranger,” she told him levelly.

  A small smile began to tug at the corners of his mouth and a gleam of amusement lit his eyes. “Oh?” he said, looking unsurprised.

  She took a half-step backward, turned and nodded once toward the house where her master, Hurl Bestry, sat waiting as he continued to scream for his breakfast.

  The stranger took in the small house briefly, then looked back to her as his almost-smile seemed to deepen. “Have you no care to ask me my business here?”

  She paused at that, but only to drop her gaze slightly to his neckline. His Birth medallion was clearly visible, as was law, lying atop the collar of his jacket. His Choice medallion, or Secondary, was not, as was his right, although already she’d seen enough to deepen her growing curiosity about this man. He had been born upon a Tenth-day—the day ruled by Chaos. Today was also a Tenth-day.

  He noted her scrutiny and lowered his eyes to her own medallion—the only one she currently possessed, for Hurl had certainly never granted her release to go and pledge her Choice Patron, despite that she’d been able to legally do so since her fifteenth birthing-day. The stranger’s eyes narrowed slightly as he took in the Patron of her birth, and his gaze turned darkly thoughtful.

  Seeing that look, Reagan then made a rapid and impulsive choice. It was a gamble, but she clung to her faith in the portents dawn had brought to her this day, and as she finally gave reply to his question, she brought a hand to her skirts and slowly raised them several inches above her right ankle.

  “Your business here is none of my concern,” she said, her eyes locked upon his again.

  He did not hold her look this time. Instead, he stared, very hard and for several moments, at what she was displaying to him. It was obvious that he knew what that bronze coil was, and fully aware of the mage-power it held.

  The stranger finally looked at her face again, and his features held no hint of amusement now. “Where does he keep it?” he asked.

  Reagan then had to fight a sudden and overwhelming urge that would have sent her sagging to the ground in utter relief. Somehow, she forced out her answer, and her voice did not waver as she did so.

  “It is always upon him,” she said.

  He nodded once, turned, and drew his sword. “I have been hunting this man, as well as several others known to him, for much of my life. But have no worry, for fortune has favored the both of us this day.”

  She was unable to keep back the tears that flooded her eyes at those last words, and she felt them spill hotly over her cheeks. “Reagan,” she told him quietly. “My name is Reagan Maves.”

  He did not offer his own name in reply, but simply glanced back at her and said, “Await me here, Reagan. Your freedom is imminent and not in question.” He took a step, but then paused and spoke again over his shoulder. “How long?”

  “Ten years,” she told him, her tears still flowing. “As of four days past, ten years.”

  He said nothing else as he started away toward the house. His strides were sure and steady, his bearing devoid of any fear. Reagan watched him go, finally letting herself sink down to the grass, spilling her basket of eggs as she continued to tremble. She knew she should worry, now—her master was a seasoned and life-long Jennite raider, and although past his prime in years, he remained a very dangerous man to cross blades with.

  But she did not worry, watching as the stranger reached the house, his sword arm steady, and as he entered into it with all the confidence of a mountain cat finally closing in upon its prey. And she did not worry at hearing the sudden, surprised shouting of her master, or during the ominous and minutes-long silence that followed. And she certainly didn’t worry when the sounds of fighting, of breaking furniture and splitting wood, rent the air and carried back to her. She instead continued sitting, her eyes and cheeks slowly drying, and waited, absently noting the continued presence of the rook, which remained upon its perch in the apple tree watching her.

  Finally, after another long period of silence, the man reappeared. His sword was now re-sheathed upon his hip, and as he began making his way back to her she took note of the gash dripping red from the back of his left hand, the only injury her eyes could see, but also of the stains of drying blood upon his overcoat and trousers. Her master’s blood, undoubtedly; it was truly over now—or would be in only a few moments more.

  Reagan forced steadiness back into her still-trembling limbs and pushed herself to her feet. She waited for him there, still paces from the edge of the road, unmoving. She held no doubt in his vow of earlier, that he would not attempt to exercise the power now in his hands. For the augury, even more than his words, had been clear.

  He reached her, saying nothing and simply kneeling down before her. Again she clutched at her skirts and revealed to him her ankle. The mage-bond wound dully about her pale skin, the bronze circlet that would have immolated her should she have taken but a single step over the boundary of her prison. The bronze circlet that could only be removed by the holder of its key.

  This key was in his palm now, and he moved it toward the lock, a device just as magical as it was mechanical.

  “I was unable to take it from him until his last breath was expelled,” he said to her now, carefully fitting the key into the lock. “For that added bit of protection, I would have to presume Magic was his Secondary.”

  “It was,” she confirmed, watching his wrist turn
. A brief, sudden heat flared about her ankle where the circlet held it, and then the feeling was gone just as abruptly as it had come. The metal band fell, dropping silently to the ground below. She watched as the man picked it up and pocketed it.

  Reagan took a step backward, and then another. A few more, and she could feel the dirt of the laneway beneath her feet. There was no doubt. She was free.

  She wanted to cry, wanted to laugh, wanted to scream. But she allowed herself to do none of these—at least, not yet. She watched as the stranger straightened to his feet before her, and she said, “There is nothing I can do to repay you. Nothing but honor the Life-Bond which is now owed.”

  He regarded her seriously, eyes narrowed. “Life-Bond…you must be Dhan’Marian.”

  She understood why he might not have recognized her as this sooner; it was her hair. The long, thick, flame-red hair she’d inherited from her mother, its color a rarity in those of her race and seen only with frequency in the northern countries of this continent.

  “I am,” she said to him with a slight nod. “And while it’s been ten years since I’ve last stood upon my home soil, I will do no disservice to its honor now.”

  The man quirked a dark brow and grinned crookedly. “There is no disservice to be had, for I am Jennite. Your customs need not apply to me.”

  “That matters not,” she replied stubbornly.

  He paused, sighed, and made a move toward his horse. “My road is dark, Reagan,” he told her, throwing a leg up and mounting. “And your dark days are past. Return to Dhanen’Mar—it lies only a few leagues to the south—and do whatever you must to forget this nightmare.” His eyes flickered to her Birth medallion, likely knowing the futility of his advice. “Certainly you must have family to return to?”

  “My parents, along with nearly our entire village, were killed by the raiders who took me. I have a brother, Baiel by name, two years younger than I and who was taken as I was. I can only hope he still lives somewhere in this world.”

  The man nodded. “You have survived, so it is possible he has as well. Make that your next step, Reagan. Go home and find your brother.”

  She was quiet a moment, but her blue gaze narrowed at him. “I cannot force you to take me with you so that I can honor the Life-Bond. It is in your power to deny me that right. But it is not in your power to make any other demands.”

  His look was pensive as he took in her words. “You misunderstand. I make suggestions, not demands. I trust you have not had the opportunity to select your Choice Patron?”

  She shook her head. “That will be my first priority. Perhaps you would be kind enough to at least direct me to the appropriate city?”

  He sighed again, understanding her implication. “Go back to Dhanen’Mar—Inuria is much nearer than the Jennite city of Revenge, which is far to the north of here.” He paused, glanced again at her Birth medallion. “Surely you know what you will be risking?”

  “I know,” she said, taking a step closer to his horse.

  “But your captor already lies dead. You have no need for this.”

  She grew quiet, thinking carefully upon her response. Finally, she said, “He was but a piece in a much larger game.” No chance would she say just how large a game, never mind that she spoke to a Jennite who likely would not be inclined to care all that much anyway. But still, she would be cautious.

  He continued staring down at her. “Do what you feel you must, then, and honor thy Patron. May Rizea bless you.”

  The Patron Rizea would either bless her, or strike her mad, Reagan knew. For it was precisely this reason why very few ever risked doubling up, deciding to make their Choice Patron the same as their Birth Patron; the odds tended to fall at half and half whether they would even survive the ceremony with their sanity intact. But it was a risk she was willing to take, for she was confident that if she could survive the past ten years without losing her mind, then she could also survive this decision—even if by nothing else than sheer force of will. Besides, how could Rizea deny her, knowing how much she, if anyone, deserved her chance at revenge?

  “I wish you fortune upon whichever path you choose to follow,” he added then, preparing to start away.

  “Wait!” Reagan issued quickly, and he stopped, looked back. “Your name,” she said.

  “Kale,” he told her, after a slight pause. “Rydin Kale.”

  She nodded. “Rydin Kale of Jennen. You deny me now, but we will meet again, you and I. And upon that meeting, I will honor the Life-Bond.”

  This statement appeared to amuse him. “You seem very certain,” he remarked lightly.

  She nodded. “The myth may be Dhan’Marian in nature, but it is rooted in both Destiny and Chaos.” She paused to pointedly eye his visible Chaos medallion. “You have saved the life of a Dhan’Marian. Events will shape themselves so that our positions will be reversed, if you are ever in need.”

  He snorted. “Well, I’m often in need, but I’m not too certain I’m partial to the idea of an insane, Double-Revenge harrying after me, obsessed with the idea of saving my life.”

  This reaction was not overly-surprising to Reagan, as Jennites typically held the beliefs of other races in much contempt. Still, he had sparked her anger.

  “What sorts of ideas you are partial to matter not to me—nor to Destiny or Chaos,” she told him in a cold tone.

  “All right, calm down,” he said, holding up a hand. “This has been a momentous day for us both, and there is no reason for us to part acrimoniously. Admittedly, your beliefs and customs seem ridiculous to me, but I suppose it is not my place to disparage them. Also, I would imagine you don’t have a very high regard for Jennites at this time, so I dare say we’re on fairly even ground.”

  She stared at him wordlessly for a moment, surprised. Then she quickly found her tongue. “You are right. It would mean much to consider the one who liberated me from my situation a friend.”

  He took that in, and nodded. “Friends, then. Yes, I think we can both be satisfied with that. Should the day come that we meet again, rest assured that I will greet you as such,” he promised.

  “And I you,” she told him.

  “I wish you blessings and much good fortune, Reagan Maves,” he went on, turning away and nudging his heels to his horse. “Whatever the path you choose.”

  She stood and watched him ride away, in the direction in which he’d come, until finally his form disappeared from sight over the top of a rolling hill. “And to you, Rydin Kale,” she at last replied, as he was lost to her eyes. “And to you.”

  She kept to her stance for another long moment, looking east, and then sudden movement in her peripheral vision caught her attention and made her turn. The rook, with a last shrill caw, had just now left its perch upon the branch to begin winging its way south. South was where Reagan would also be headed—once she took care of one final matter. Ignoring the internal shudder she felt at crossing back over the invisible boundary that had held her prisoner for so very long, she began a quick stalk back toward the house. Her sheer relief at becoming free had not yet ebbed, although now, it had been eclipsed by a cold rage. Hurl was dead, but this was not enough, nowhere near enough. Pausing briefly by the log pile sitting at the side of the dwelling, she took up the handle of the axe she’d been made to use daily to chop wood.

  The door of the house had been left slightly ajar, and she kicked it the rest of the way open as she entered. She paused and looked around. The table had been overturned, as well as two of the four chairs which had ringed it. There was a smashed vase upon the floor, and a mighty crack splintering the south wall. She did not see Hurl, but there remained little mystery as to where his body must now be. She followed the splashes of drying blood into the bedroom and paused again.

  It appeared Rydin Kale had not been lying when he’d stated that he’d been hunting for her master for some time—for it quickly became apparent that he’d not only had reason t
o kill Hurl, but had utterly hated him. Nothing else could explain the condition of the body before her. Rydin Kale had savored this kill, and had not made it a quick one. She briefly regretted not asking him the reasons for his pursuit, but it wasn’t a regret strong enough to influence the wide smile she suddenly felt breaking out over her face.

  Reagan turned and began swinging her axe. First went the parchment-thin pallet she’d been made to sleep on—when she wasn’t dragged to Hurl’s own lumpy mattress—followed by the small dresser and then the bed which had seen her shame more times than she could remember over the past ten years. The fact that his body presently lay still in death upon it did not halt or even slow her.

  Once finished with the bedroom, she returned to the front of the house and continued her treatment upon the kitchen, and then into the small sitting room which was fashioned around the fireplace. Some time ago she’d distantly realized that she was screaming with every swing and strike.

  She did not drop the axe until she was back outside. The house behind her was now quickly becoming engulfed in flames, a further and final result of her fury. Looking down, she realized her dress was spotted with blood and that splinters of wood were caught up in the long, loose locks of her hair. Uncaring, she turned and began walking south—south, back to Dhanen’Mar.

  She had taken nothing with her but for the clothes on her back, nothing even from their small larder. The very thought of bringing anything from that place had turned her stomach She eventually became aware of the soreness in her shoulders and arms, a result of her ferocious yet satisfying destruction of Hurl’s home, and the pain gave her an odd sense of comfort. She realized she was grinning as she walked.

  Rydin had spoken that the border separating Jennen and Dhanen’Mar was only a few leagues distant. She would reach it by nightfall, if his words had been accurate, and then she would keep on straight away for Inuria, the home city of her Birth Patron, Rizea. Rizea held dominion over all those born upon a Sixth-day, all those born to the sign of Revenge. And there in Inuria, Reagan would enter into Rizea’s temple and at last take part in the rite of selecting her Secondary, her Choice Patron, one who would be no different than her Birth Patron. Madness was a risk. But if she were to pursue a revenge against the one she truly held responsible for what had become of herself and her family, as well as to so many others, she would need every blessing and favor Rizea could give her.

  Then, and so long as she survived the ceremony with her mind intact, she could begin. She would search for Baiel, of course, for she knew she would find no peace until she’d learned the fate of her brother; but she would do this even while she made her revenge schemes, while she began laying the steps that would eventually lead her to the one who was ultimately to blame, the one who’d had both the forewarning and the power to put a halt to those Jennite raids that had destroyed so many more families and villages than just her own. From his seat in Justice’s home city of Aralexia, Redgar DeSiva had done nothing. He had not sent any from the Legion of Justice, nor had he even responded to the numerous pleas for aid from the thousands of Dhan’Marians who’d lived in the country’s northern regions. He had left them, with no protection or concern, to be butchered and taken into slavery by the Jennites.

  But backed with a double fortune of Revenge, Reagan felt that she might stand a chance. Even if the one she pledged to kill—a pledge now ten years and four days old—was Dhanen’Mar’s own king.

  Just before dusk, she reached the border. She crossed into her homelands and kept on due south, headed for Inuria.

  Part 1

  Ardin’s Pride

  Chapter 1