Amáne of Teravinea - The Chosen One (The Teravinea Series Book 1)

  Copyright © 2012 D. María Trimble

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: ISBN-10: 0985575301

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9855753-0-4

  To my dad, who met with his ancestors before I could finish the series. I’ll meet you on the other side when it’s my time and let you know how it ends.

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  I raised my sword to block and deflect yet another blow. The dark armored lord set upon me throwing strike after strike. My breath became short and raspy as I struggled for air. With no time to thrust or lunge, I could only parry his attacks. I couldn’t hold him much longer. His bulk towered over me as he pushed me back. Back toward the precipice that would finish the battle. Why hadn’t help arrived?

  Sweat stung my eyes, my head throbbed where the flat side of his sword had made contact. My muscles no longer burned, but had reached the stage where they would no longer obey. The end was close. The void from the edge of the cliff echoed behind me as I lost ground.

  With a gleam of death in his eye, my enemy lunged for his final blow. I stepped back but my boot couldn’t find footing. The ground broke away and I tumbled backwards. I felt the swish of his sword as it just missed taking off my head. Helpless, I grabbed at nothing — both arms beat the air. My stomach leaped to my throat as I plummeted into the chasm.

  From out of nowhere a large fiery dragon swooped in. Its talons wrapped around my waist as it snatched me from the air. At that same instant, I jolted upright in my bed. My nightclothes stuck to the sweat that drenched my body. My breathing matched that of my dream. The throbbing in my head was real.

  Lately, my dreams always ended the same — rescued by a dragon. But there haven’t been any dragons in our skies for a long time. In truth, I’d never seen one in my nearly fifteen years. That fact did not lessen my hope of the future for which I longed — one filled with weaponry, swordplay and a distinct journey all my own — which included dragons. Ever since I can remember, I’d aspired to be brave and strong; to have a mission in life; to be worthy of a quest. But one problem plagued me — I was born a girl.

  “Amáne,” my mother called. “It’s a market day. Get up. I need you to help me load up the cart and hook up Ezel.” Ezel was our donkey.

  My mother, Catriona, made fine ceramic utensils, bowls and plates that she sold in the marketplace. Her wares were not unknown throughout the kingdom. Her family’s guild had made the tableware for the House of Drekinn, the royal family that had ruled Teravinea for the last several hundred years — before Galtero seized the throne by treachery.

  We rode into town together and she dropped me off at the Dragon’s Fang Tavern. It was a classroom by day and a pub by night. People were frugal in our township of Dorsal. They saw no purpose in a building where the sole use was for academics. A pub was a perfect location — students occupied the place from early morning until early afternoon, at which time the pub patrons would start trickling in. They caroused until the wee hours of the morning — vacating just in time for the students the next day. It worked.

  Like other girls of Teravinea, I was educated. In addition to reading and writing, we were expected to learn our history songs and ballads, although most of them had been altered and had lost their beauty and power. They had deviated from the beautiful works our ancestors had written. My mother took it upon herself to teach me the original songs. I was thankful for her efforts because it is in ignorance that we lose our direction.

  Entering the tavern, I took my place on a bench at one of the long tables. The stench was enough to aggravate my progressing headache. The straw on the floor had probably been there when the last dragon lived — which was a few years before I was born — and had only been added to instead of changed. The spilled ale, wine, urine and whatever scraps had fallen on the ground, along with the heat and the rare humidity, made the odor nearly unbearable. It certainly didn’t improve my mood.

  A new teacher arrived in town only a few weeks before. My mother contended he had been sent to Dorsal from the City of Teravinea to try to bend or break us. Evidently our previous teacher lacked in forceful persuasion. We were unwilling to move too quickly into accepting the usurping King Galtero, never mind he had been on the throne for over seventeen years. If this teacher could indoctrinate the younger generation, in a matter of a short time we would forget our ancestors and our history, and yield completely to Galtero’s corrupt rule.

  My headache refused to relinquish its hold — I struggled with it for most of the day through writing and calculating figures. I just wanted to close my eyes and make it go away, but found myself, instead, staring at the confusion of carvings in the table. Decades and decades of “art,” some quite rude, scarred the long tables of the Dragon’s Fang Tavern. Lost in thought, I contemplated the unsung stories of the people who had sat here.

  The sudden silence in the room brought me out of my musing. To my horror, I realized the teacher had called upon me. His angry glare confirmed he had tried more than once to get my attention.

  “I beg your pardon, Teacher,” I said, standing up too quickly, which caused my head to feel like it would explode. “I didn’t hear you.”

  “I asked you to sing the ballad of The Battle of Sregor’s Field,” he said, “which I hope you have been studying, as I gave you two weeks in which to learn it.”

  I felt the heat rise in my face. Being called to sing in front of the class always made my stomach churn. I became paralyzed whenever attention was drawn to me. But I had to comply with Teacher’s request. To my consolation, the The Battle of Sregor’s Field was one of my favorites — I knew all of the verses.

  “Yes, Master Teacher.” My hand clutched the table to steady myself. I closed my eyes so I could imagine I was alone, and began to sing in a shaky voice.

  The ballad described a battle that took place in a field owned by Hon Sregor, near the City of Teravinea. It told of how Nara, the last dragon rider, and her famous dragon, Torin, had swooped into the battle at the last moment when things looked bad for King Emeric. Flaming the forward line of the enemy army, Torin and Nara gave King Emeric’s soldiers the inspiration they needed to rally in one last heroic effort. With Nara and Torin’s help, they turned the tide of the battle and allowed victory for King Emeric.

  I had not gotten far into the ballad when Teacher shouted, “Stop singing! Those are not the proper words.”

  “Excuse me. With all due respect, sir, these are the proper words, written by a minstrel w
ho was present at that battle. My mother told me.”

  “Don’t be insolent, girl. Now sing the proper words.”

  I felt the eyes of my fellow students — their interest sparked in our exchange — alert and eager to hear my response.

  Under his breath I heard Teacher say, “This is the result of a child being raised solely by her mother. There should be a law against that.”

  Only with extraordinary effort did I manage to hold my tongue. How dare he insult my mother. I started again, and sang it the way my mother had taught me.

  “Silence!” He pounded his fist on the table. “Those are the antiquated words and you will not sing it as such. King Galtero has forbidden it.”

  Fully aware of how he expected me to sing it, I refused to offend my ancestors. The ballad had been revised and completely left Nara and Torin out in an effort to brainwash the youth with the lie that dragons never existed. Instead, it boasted the battle was won only by the intervention of King Emeric’s step-uncle — Galtero. I would pierce my foot with my dagger before I would sing anything in honor of that man.

  “Now, Amáne, will you sing it correctly?” He was losing his patience. I had already lost mine.

  “Yes, Master Teacher, I will sing it correctly.” My eyes blazed as I locked eyes with him. My head pounded and I began again. I sung it — the way it was originally written.

  The girl beside me gasped.

  The teacher charged at me with the stick he was in the habit of carrying and struck my arm, leaving a welt. He roared, “Out, you contemptuous girl! You may not set foot in my class again until your mother comes and speaks with me. I want a written apology from both you and your mother.”

  I was more than happy to leave. I didn’t care if I ever stepped foot in his class again. Gathering my satchel, I stormed out without giving him the satisfaction of my tears, or the acknowledgment of the painful sting he had inflicted on my arm.

  Being born here in Dorsal is truly the only way anyone could love and understand this place. The furthest township from the throne, we have our traditions passed on from generation to generation. We’re loathe to part with them any time soon, regardless of the efforts of our current king — or any teacher intent on changing our ways. Our allegiance, in reality, should be to King Galtero, but our allegiance in our hearts remains with King Emeric of the House of Drekinn, who has rested with his ancestors since before I was born.

  Perched at the edge of the desert, Dorsal is a modest seaside township on the southernmost tip of the Kingdom of Teravinea. It overlooks a large bay of sapphire blue, dotted with a scattering of islands — an incomparable view.

  Not to be misled by its beauty, our seemingly alluring corner of the kingdom truthfully presents a harsh environment with draconian shifts in the weather. One minute the bay shines as smooth as glass, the air dead calm with unbearable heat. Then, without warning, white caps appear — breaking the tranquility of the sea. Suddenly, the furious wind lashes out with a vengeance — like a scorned female who has lost control of her temper. Anything not secured is tossed about, only to be found battered and broken at quite a distance from its point of origin. Then, satisfied with the punishment inflicted, her anger abates with no apology. We call this wind a Valaira. She commands our respect and is never to be underestimated.

  On more than one occasion I heard my mother lament the fact she named me Amáne and not Valaira.

  Despite the weather, and our small size, our township boasts quite a bustling location. Merchant ships still find it worthwhile to gamble on the temperament of a Valaira and enter our harbor, depositing their goods in trade for our fine crafts as well as salt and other delicacies of the sea.

  It was just the two of us, my mother, Catriona, and myself, living in a small cottage outside the walls of Dorsal, at the southwest end of the township. My father, Duer, left on a mission for the king shortly after I was conceived. He never returned. Personally, the fact he was involved in this king’s business left me feeling fortunate I never knew him — King Galtero will be the ruin of our once-great kingdom. Duer’s affiliation with him, and his abandonment of my mother and me, would be his life’s greatest regret if he were still alive — and I were to meet him face to face. I vowed he would have no mercy from me. My mother, knowing my feelings, didn’t speak often about Duer, but when she did, it was without animosity. She never fully got over him. I think she always had hope he would return. I, however, shall never forgive him for deserting us.

  Once girls reached fifteen, most parents began to look for suitors for their daughters. Thankfully, my mother didn’t believe in that archaic practice. Instead, she supported my inclinations and did what she could to make me feel like I wasn’t a complete oddity for my gender. We never made public my attraction for learning the arts of weaponry and defense.

  I didn’t have many female acquaintances as my interests varied too greatly from those of the other girls. There was a group I would join occasionally. We wandered the marketplace and flirted with the handsome young men who tended the colorful stalls. We were thrilled if we caught the eye of a rich young foreign merchant. Then I would enjoy their fantasies as they dreamed of being whisked away to live forever in a palace in some exotic kingdom.

  One of the girls, Fiona, whose disposition matched the sweetness of her looks, was the closest of my acquaintances. Although we didn’t spend much time together, we were comfortable in each other’s company. I could more or less be myself. But, there remained one thing of which I was extremely envious of Fiona — her younger twin sisters, Rio and Mila. Twins were rare in our community because of the high mortality rate, unless they were delivered by the Healer. It just so happened my mother assisted the Healer in their birth. Rio and Mila were about five years younger than I. Being an only child, I longed for siblings. They were my ideal of the perfect sisters — little ones who would look up to their older sister with such love and admiration in their eyes. It pained me to know I would never be the recipient of that kind of devotion.

  Unusually perceptive, not much got past Fiona’s discerning eye, even when there were quite a few of us together. It was just the day before our group had stopped at every stall selling silk, ribbons and lace, for which I had very little enthusiasm. My inattention was not lost on her. However, when we passed a stall with an inventory of swords, partisans, polearms and daggers, I would hang back and feast my eyes on these masterpieces of the cutler. Then my own fantasies formed in my head. Instead of being whisked away by a handsome foreign merchant, I would travel throughout the kingdom, join in raging battles to save lives and put all things to right.

  “Amáne,” Fiona brought me out of my reverie. “You would do better paying attention to the ribbons and lace — you’ll never find a suitor looking for a wife who wields a blade.”

  “Unless it’s a six-inch blade to cut the meat and vegetables for his meal,” piped in one of the other girls. We all laughed, but I kept it to myself I was not the least bit interested in finding a husband.

  I had one male acquaintance, Kail, the grinder’s youngest son, who was a year or so less than I. I referred to most of my peers only as acquaintances, because “friend” was a much more powerful relationship than I held with anyone in Dorsal. Only my mother deserved that title. Kail was a rebellious young man, and it seemed he lived to fight authority. This worked out to my advantage as he was only too happy to take issue against the king’s edict of no swordplay for females. This gave opportunity for him to dissent. He happily taught me the art of sword fighting. We practiced most afternoons behind my mother’s workshop. She made sure to keep a close eye on us. She held some concern at how much larger and stronger Kail was than I — and at his lack of restraint when we fought. We never used metal swords for our practice. Instead we’d spar with the wooden ones called wasters. Our practice often ended in large bruises for me, but I could smugly say he never left our sessions unscathed. In my efforts to avoid bruises, I learned very quickly. I knew I could learn more from fighters who wer
e more skilled than myself — and Kail was quite capable in the defensive arts. Again, it was to my benefit, as my lessons in self defense were more enhanced. What hurts, teaches.

  My mother also offered verbal lessons and critiques to help me improve. I loved that she also had an interest in defense. Her knowledge of weaponry was impressive.

  Although I preferred the masculine education and conventions, I was completely satisfied with the gender into which I was born. Never would I be that helpless maiden in search of a husband to take care of me. If and when I finally decide to find someone, contrary to what Fiona might think, he would be someone who accepts a wife who wields a blade. But such a topic was so far in my future, it was almost non-existent. I never wasted much time or effort dwelling upon it.

  I didn’t think it possible my day could get any worse. Storming out of the Dragon’s Fang Tavern, I made a concerted effort to hold my tears until later, when I could confide in my mother. Heading to her stall in the marketplace, I hoped she would want to leave the market early. When I arrived, I found her booth empty and sealed up for the day.

  The man who sold teas and spices in the neighboring stall noticed me as I stood before her deserted booth. “Amáne, your mother went home early. She said she wasn’t feeling well.”

  Alarmed, I rushed away.

  Disregarding my headache, I ran most of the way home. I burst in the door of our cottage and found her in bed, wincing in pain. Something was seriously wrong and the sight of her pale face terrified me. She was my rock and my strength, and was not supposed to get sick ... she was my mother.

  “Mother,” my voice trembled, “what’s wrong? I’m going back into town for the Healer.”

  “No, Amáne, that’s not necessary, yet. Please, just stay with me and let me rest. If I’m no better tomorrow, then you can go first thing in the morning. I’ll be okay tonight.” She calmed my uneasiness. It couldn’t be as serious as I had feared. Needless to say, I didn’t burden her with the events of my horrible day. I tucked the incident away in a safe place to bring out later when she felt better.