Secrets of Fathara Read online

  Secrets

  of

  Fathara

  The Azetha Series – Book 1

  ROBIN GLASSEY

  Secrets of Fathara by Robin Glassey

  Copyright © 2014 by Robin Glassey

  Cover and interior artwork by Odalis Uribe © Robin Glassey 2014

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without express written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For information regarding permission please contact Robin Glassey at [email protected]

  All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  2nd Edition Printed by CreateSpace 2015

  ISNB 151145217X

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2

  1st Edition Printed by CreateSpace September 2014

  ISBN 1500553531

  Dedicated to my family —

  Especially my husband who was the first to encourage me write this story down, my son Gage who was the first to hear it, and my father who was the first soul brave enough to read it.

  Works by Robin Glassey:

  The Least of Elves

  (Prequel to The Azetha Series)

  Secrets of Fathara:

  The Azetha Series — Book 1

  The Veil of Death:

  The Azetha Series — Book 2

  Journey to the Mercy Mines:

  The Azetha Series — Book 3

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from The Veil of Death

  Glossary

  Appendix

  About the Author

  And the One who stood for All stood alone.

  From the Prophecies of E’Thoam Hlae

  Prologue

  Sha’Chivok raised a frozen hand to the prison door and hesitated briefly. Before he could knock on the frosted barrier in front of him, Mortan called out irritably, “Enter!”

  Bracing himself for the inevitable confrontation with the ancient Elf, the frozen Water Elemental turned the handle and entered the room deep in the heart of Castle Simmai, located in the northern reaches of Gor Vodi. Of all the places in Fathara, this was the perfect place for Mortan to plot and plan, experiment and expand.

  Sha’Chivok was not privy to all of his master’s plans. None of the Sha’andari, of which Sha’Chivok had been the first, knew all of Mortan’s plans (for the Elf trusted no one). And yet Mortan promised them so much: power, magic, and immortality. The sorcerer had made Sha’Chivok glorious promises, grand promises. In truth, immortality was nothing to an Elemental. Sha’Chivok could choose to live forever if he wished, yet his power and magic were still limited compared to what Mortan now wielded. The sorcerer’s promises were tempting for an Elemental who had endured much — so tempting.

  Sha’Chivok resisted the urge to look down at the gaping hole burned clear through the center of his stomach. His fluid nature could shift the scar, but why bother? He couldn’t make it disappear, only move its position. Only Elemental magic could damage him so. It reminded him of his carelessness in the past. Carelessness in the future would mean more than an inconvenient hole; it would mean his death.

  Mortan wore his red robe with gold trim down the front today (never a good sign). On the thick gold trim were woven several magical symbols to amplify Mortan’s power. The Sha’andari often wondered how many rubies it had taken to cover the robe.

  In contrast to the blood-red robe, Mortan’s chalk-white face and midnight hair stood out. At his advanced age, the Elf’s hair should have turned silver but Sha’Chivok suspected the sorcerer used alternative means to keep his original color. It was unlike an Elf to show such vanity — such weakness. There were some signs of the Elf’s age such as paper-thin skin and a few wrinkles around the eyes and the corners of his lips. Other than a few wrinkles though, Mortan’s skin remained incredibly smooth for one so old. Sha’Chivok suspected there were more signs of his age that the sorcerer kept carefully hidden using magic.

  In the center of the room, suspended in mid-air by a globe of green light, hung a forest windah. The small wooden creature had clearly been tortured for some time as his bark lay in peels — scattered around on the icy floor below him. Slivers and chunks of wood also lay around the room, yet Mortan held no mortal weapon in his hands. Sap oozed slowly from several places of the windah’s body, including the corners of his tiny brown eyes. His head slumped forward with thin twigs sticking out of the top of his head like spiky hair. One solitary green leaf remained on a twig — sticking straight up — as if in defiance of the brutal torture being delivered. The windah’s arms stretched out painfully up and to the sides with his tiny wooden legs dangling uselessly below him.

  Sha’Chivok suppressed a shudder at the sight as he pictured himself possibly hanging there, with chunk after chunk of ice ripped off his body. It might happen after he gave Mortan his report. The Elemental forced his eyes away from the tortured creature in the middle of the room, and waited for his master to address him.

  “Tell Us what Lindra’s plan is, and all this can stop,” Mortan commanded, in voice that sounded like rushing water.

  Sha’Chivok had grown accustomed to Mortan’s strange way of speaking. The Elemental knew the “Us” did not mean Mortan and Sha’Chivok, but rather the sorcerer alone. Mortan was the only Elf Sha’Chivok knew of who spoke in this manner, and he was certainly not going to correct the sorcerer. Sha’Chivok remembered when Mortan used to call himself I, however, that had been centuries ago when Mortan’s eyes were silver, not red. It would be folly to bring attention to the Elf’s odd speech. Every so often Mortan seemed his old self before the darkness overcame him, although those moments were rare and occurred less and less as time went by.

  The windah who hung suspended in the room was also in no position to correct Mortan. He merely grunted in reply to Mortan’s question and was rewarded with a flick of the sorcerer’s right index finger. A chunk of wood flew off the creature, ricocheting off the cell wall. Straining against the green magical bonds, the windah gave a high-pitched squeal of pain.

  Sha’Chivok doubted it really mattered what question Mortan asked. (In truth, he could have asked what the windah had eaten for breakfast.) The Elf was making no headway in his questioning, for it appeared these little creatures would not break under torture, no matter what the drovers, zhobani, or Mortan himself did to them.

  Without even glancing his way, Mortan addressed Sha’Chivok brusquely, “What have you to report?” Another flick of the finger sent an even bigger chunk flying off the windah’s stomach. He howled in pain, straining against the magical bonds, but his mouth quickly clamped down and his tiny eyes glared at Mortan in obvious hatred.

  Sha’Chivok was grateful to not have Mortan’s direct gaze on him. The Elf’s unnatural blood red eyes with shifting black specks unsettled even the bravest of souls. The Elemental shifted his gaze to a point on the wall beyond the defiant windah.

  “The search for the child of the prophecy continues, Master. We’ve narrowed our focus to the Kingdom of Rhodea, as it contains the most unregulated use of magic. Finding Azetha remains difficult, h
owever, as the land is full of Keepers. The use of magic within the cities and villages is constant, making it difficult to narrow down the child’s identity.”

  Sha’Chivok’s eyes flickered briefly over to his master, and then back to the spot on the wall. “If there was something more you could provide that would help identify Azetha . . .”

  Mortan’s full gaze turned on the frozen Elemental and Sha’Chivok cut off his sentence before finishing. The intense dark red eyes made Sha’Chivok feel as though his insides boiled, screaming for escape into the air and away from his master’s scrutiny. He forced his icy feet to remain still, and wait.

  After a painful pause the Elf bit out, “Azetha has eluded you and the rest of the Sha’andari for sixteen years. Those who want the rewards must do the work. It is past time you found the child, Sha’Chivok.”

  “Yes, Master. I won’t fail you, Master,” Sha’Chivok promised, bowing low.

  “See that you do not. We do not look kindly on failure.” Mortan gestured at the windah who gave a final weak cry and slumped in his bonds.

  Sha’Chivok took it as a dismissal and turned to leave the prison room. He grimaced at Mortan’s next words.

  “What do you know about the nature of windah?”

  “Master?”

  “We torture them to death, and yet they refuse to answer Our questions, no matter how simple,” said Mortan, with what sounded like a hint of frustration leaking into his tone.

  “Windah are fiercely loyal creatures. If they believe you mean someone or something harm they won’t cooperate, no matter what you do to them,” explained Sha’Chivok.

  “Even when We try to manipulate their minds, they remain uncooperative.”

  Sha’Chivok gave an apologetic shrug of his shoulders. “Windah are simple creatures, and perhaps that’s why mind manipulation doesn’t work. You can’t force your way into their memories like you can with Humans, Elves and other more complex creatures.”

  If Sha’Chivok had a tongue he would have bit it. Instead he froze even harder, crackling slightly from the pressure of it. He shouldn’t have equated Humans with Elves. Mortan’s long-standing hatred of Humans was legendary. It was at the heart of the ancient Elf’s war against the Humans and the rest of Elfdom.

  If Mortan heard him, however, he chose to ignore the comment. The ancient Elf was obviously lost in thought, tapping a long white finger against thin lips. He muttered to himself, “We believe they are using the windah for something . . . for what?”

  The Elf looked up. “Why are you still here? Find the child. Listen and look for anything out of the ordinary. The Humans today do not trust magic. They try to get rid of anything magical. The stupid beasts in Travanne do not even realize the prayers they say are really magical spells.” This produced a sharp bark of laughter from the black-haired Elf. Sha’Chivok left the cold room taking rapid strides, relieved he’d been spared for the moment. The windah proved distraction enough this time. As he left, however, he heard his master order a drover to clean up the room and prepare another windah for questioning. This time Sha’Chivok shivered, but not from the cold. He had to find Azetha before the other Sha’andari. His very existence depended on it.

  One

  Tika tried again to move her arms, but they remained stuck to her sides, bound in place. No amount of wiggling over the last few hours had loosened them. Her head pounded from the constant jarring up and down, up and down her body experienced as they raced through the forest.

  Bound as she was against her giant captor, she felt his heartbeat racing against her cheek.

  Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

  Tika felt his fear like water break over her in waves; heard the baying of the creatures that followed them drawing nearer.

  He stumbled, and the thumping stopped as they fell towards the ground. She held her breath — waiting to be crushed by his weight. A rolling motion at the last moment saved her from death, and their movement briefly stopped. He quickly hopped back up and the jolting began anew.

  The clicking and clattering behind them that was once distant now sounded as though Tika could reach out and touch it. Her fingers clenched reflexively. Even without knowing what was behind them she sensed the danger, and didn’t want to see or touch whatever that sound belonged to.

  The beats against Tika’s ear pulsed so rapidly she could hardly tell one beat from the next: thump thump, thump thump, thump thump.

  Something black streaked past, and they jerked to one side.

  Thump thump.

  Tika’s captor shouted in alarm, his body jerking upwards. Black shapes jumped towards them with teeth and jaws snapping and snarling.

  She wanted to cry out, but no sound came. Her mouth opened and closed uselessly, eyes wide with fear.

  Quickly they climbed up into a mass of bright, glittering green. The cloud of fear from her captor was replaced with relief as long sharp objects came raining down from above onto the creatures below. But her body snapped back, and she and her captor fell and fell . . . ending with a slam on the ground.

  The thumping against her ear slowed.

  Thump . . .

  Thump . . .

  Thump.

  Tika felt her bonds loosened. Two long-fingered hands picked her up and turned her around. She blinked, staring into a pair of large green eyes.

  Princess Tikorrah Navarro awoke from the dream, her heart racing. She’d had this particular nightmare many times over the years, the images and sounds getting more vivid each time. Seeing the large green eyes at the end was new, though. Her mother had tried to comfort her, saying everyone has dreams of being chased — that it wasn’t unusual. This dream, however, always felt so real — as though it was a memory. The clicking of claws echoed in her head, and she shivered.

  The chill morning air slid down the princess’ neck and arms that had become uncovered during the unpleasant dream. She tugged on the blanket to cover her body back up in a cocoon of warmth. Yet the expectant warmth never came, and as she jerked on the blanket it resisted. She pulled and yanked, still without success.

  Something was wrong.

  Waking up fully to discover the problem, her long slender arm reached out and hit fur. A soft growl issued out of a mouth of razor-sharp teeth only inches from Tika’s vulnerable throat.

  She froze — and then softened.

  “Quiet, Herra!” Tika chastened the large sand tiger softly. “You know you aren’t supposed to sleep in my room.”

  She scratched her dearest friend behind the ear, garnering a satisfied purr. “If father finds out I snuck you in here last night, of all nights, he’ll marry me off for sure whether I wish it or not.”

  Herra blinked her large golden eyes at the princess in seeming sympathy, her feline chin resting on the bed’s soft feather comforter.

  “I might be turning sixteen today, but that doesn’t mean my father listens to me.” Tika placed a hand on either side of Herra’s face, and looked deeply into the tiger’s eyes. “You always listen to me though, my friend, even if you ignore my instructions.”

  Herra looked at her sideways, and the princess gave her a little grin. Just as Herra wasn’t a model sand tiger, neither was Tika a model princess. They made quite a pair. Neither of them was entirely obedient and fit the mold of what they should be.

  Sand tigers in captivity were all collared. The magical collars kept the tigers under control and tame. Herra was the only known exception to this. Tika had rescued her as the runt of a litter. She had been too small for any collar when young and as she grew, Tika had continually convinced her mother to delay putting a collar on the tiger by proving Herra was tame enough without one.

  There had been a few “incidents” that had had to be smoothed over, and yet Tika still managed to convince her mother that Herra wasn’t being wild, just playful. Still, the princess took every opportunity she could to get Herra out of the city and let her hunt. She knew her friend’s wild nature demanded those instincts be met.

  The balcony
doors rattled, and Tika jumped out of bed in a mad rush across the cold stone floor. Herra rolled her eyes and Tika caught the motion.

  “I know, I know. But if I don’t open them and let her in, she’ll just cause a commotion throughout the castle. I can’t have you caught in here today. Or worse yet, she’ll find something to steal and I’ll get blamed again as the thief. Thanks to her, my reputation has been tarnished forever.”

  The doors rattled again and Tika called, “I’m coming! I’m coming!”

  She unbolted the doors, and a breeze blew in, racing around the room and almost knocking over the pitcher of cold water on Tika’s dresser. It raced up Herra’s back, causing the hair to rise and the tiger to snap her teeth at the swirling air. Herra growled a low, angry growl and Tika shushed her friend, her hands pleading with the tiger to be silent.

  The wind then turned on Tika, swirling her nightgown around her legs, and in a sudden burst shot up to her head and twirled around it thoroughly, tangling Tika’s already sleep-tousled hair. The princess batted at the wind with her hands, as though being attacked by stinging giva flies. The results were the same though. She couldn’t drive her attacker away.

  “Shiforeh, enough already!” Tika whisper shouted. “I’ll cut off your wings and preserve you for King Baldor’s collection if you don’t stop,” she threatened.

  With a disgruntled sniff the wind abated, and the tiny faery flitted with injured pride over to the dressing table to preen in front of the mirror.

  Tika sucked in a breath to begin an apology to Shiforeh, and then stopped herself after seeing her reflection in the mirror. The long dark brown matted mess above her face appeared beyond reclaiming — again. Tika’s slightly pointy ears peeked out, and she adjusted her hair to cover them. Her ears had begun changing around her fifteenth birthday from being rounded to looking pointier like an Elf. Queen Isleen explained that Tika had inherited her ears from an ancestor and it was nothing to be ashamed of. Still, they made Tika feel more than self-conscious, and she did whatever she could to hide them.