Sara Reinke - The Chronicles of Tiralainn 2 - Book of Days

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Book of Days

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BOOK OF DAYS

by Sara Reinke

This book is dedicated with love in memory of my uncle,

James E. “Pete” Howard

(August 1, 1956-April 11, 2001), Chief Petty Officer, United States Navy,

who began it all with a simple gift that has yielded a lifetime of bounties for me ...

And in memory of my father-in-law, Rodney R. Reinke

(October 18, 1941-June 8, 2001),

in whose gentle smiles lay unspoken volumes.

Ta a fhios sin agam ta sibh in eineacht le me.

Go raimh maith agat, mo'cairde. Codladh samh duit.

Prologue

The year 1712 of the Third Age

"I have failed you,” Dagarron Atreile whispered. He pressed the rim of a pewter cup to his lips and

tossed his head back, feeling brimague run down his throat with dim heat.

It had taken three days for the news to reach the small haven of Mehnine. When it had, it had spread

like wildfire in dried witchgrass, as grim tidings so often do in quiet hamlets and close-knit communities.

Dagarron had heard tell of it by lunchtime; murmurs that King Herdranges had been butchered, his royal

counsels and guard massacred, his throne stolen by the brother of his Elfin Queen. Herdranges's infant

children, the twin heirs to his crown, had been slain and his wife, Queen Lythaniele, had thrown herself

from one of the castle towers.

"I have failed you all,” Dagarron said. He sat along the crowded bar of Mehnine's solitary, cramped pub,

the Fortune's Folly. He had spent the grand majority of his day there with a cup in his hands and a grief

so profound that it weighed like iron upon his heart. At the sound of a small voice crying out in startled

fear behind him, he glanced over his shoulder, drawn from his sorrow.

"What are you doing here, Elf?” he heard a man say loudly, followed by a sharp, distinctive slapping

sound and another frightened, tremulous cry.

Dagarron had observed a young Gaeilge boy stealing into the pub several moments earlier. No more

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than eleven or twelve to judge by his diminutive stature, the wide-eyed lad had exhibited a level of

curiosity uncharacteristic of Elves, and boldness at entering a tavern filled with drunken menfolk that

demonstrated a higher degree of innocent naiveté than good sense. Dagarron had recognized him as a

Donnag'crann, a sect of Gaeilge Elves who called the dense and sprawling forests of Tirnag'crann to the

south of Mehnine their home. He could have warned the boy that the tavern on that night in particular

was no place for Elves. The air within the Fortune's Folly was thick with heated and venomous

conversations directed against the usurper king, at Lahnduren's new regime, and against Elves in general.

A burly man standing nearly twice as tall as the little Elf had spied him creeping among the crowd and

had seized him roughly by the hair. A large group of men, all too filled with portar and brimague to reason

with coherence or clarity, had gathered about, their lips twisted into menacing and wicked sneers.

Dagarron pivoted in his seat, letting his hips slide toward the edge of the stool, his boot soles drop to the

floor.

"Le ... le do thoil ... ni dteannan sibh!” the boy whimpered, his eyes enormous with fright, shining in the

glow of lanterns with sudden tears.Please do not!

"Speak the popular speech, cub,” the man snapped, and again, he slapped the boy's face. “This is

Mehnine you trespass in—a village of menfolk!"

"We do not speak your bastard Elf tongue here!” cried another, stepping forward, his fingers closing into

purposeful fists. “Hold him still. Let me teach him how to speak in the company of men."

"Leave him alone,” Dagarron said, walking slowly toward them, fixing his gaze on the man holding the

boy's hair. “Let the boy go."

There was not a man in Mehnine who did not know Dagarron by face and name, if not by reputation. As

he passed, he heard the crowd of men whisper sharply together, scuttling away from him uncertainly.

"He is an Elf!” the man holding the boy shouted to Dagarron. “Elves murdered our king—your blood

kin, Dagarron!"

"He is a child,” Dagarron said, his brows drawing together, his voice measured but stern. “Lahnduren

killed Herdranges. This boy did not. Let him go."

"Le do thoil!” the boy whimpered again.Please!

"Shut your mouth, whelp!” the man yelled, raising his hand again. The boy cowered, his hands dancing

helplessly toward his face in frightened anticipation of the blow.

Dagarron moved swiftly, closing his fingers against the man's thick wrist. He rotated the man's thumb

away from his shoulder, forcing his arm to hyperextend at an abrupt and agonizing angle. The man

yowled in startled pain, his fingertips slipping free of the boy's hair as he struggled against Dagarron's

immobilizing grip. The boy scuttled against the wall, crumpling to his knees, shrinking into the corner.

The man balled his hand to punch Dagarron, and Dagarron wrenched his wrist all the further. The man

cried out sharply, stumbling, falling to his knees. “Let ... let go of me!” he bellowed. “Sweet Mother!

Turn me loose!"

"If you touch the boy again, you will answer to me,” Dagarron said. He swept the gathering of angry men

with his gaze. “If any of you move to harm the Elf, you will need to pass me to do it."

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He thrust the man's wrist away from him and stepped toward the boy, his gaze sharp and wary. “Go

back to your portars,” Dagarron told the men. “All of you now. Go back to your portars and let this boy

pass."

He turned toward the boy, and genuflected before him. The boy shied further into the corner, his green

eyes enormous, his tears spilling unabated.

"Le ... le do thoil,” he whimpered. “Le do thoil ... ni ... ni gorteann tu agam!”Please do not hurt me.

"Ta se maith,” Dagarron said to him gently.It is alright. “Ni eagliann tu, a'leaid. Ni gortoidh me agat. Ta

tu slan anois.”Do not be frightened. I will not hurt you. You are safe now.

The boy blinked at him, startled by his address in Gaeilgen, a language most menfolk in the realm did not

speak with any fluency. Dagarron reached for the young Elf and he flinched, drawing his shoulder toward

his cheek; his breath caught in his throat in a frightened gasp. Dagarron could see the dim shadow of

bruises forming along the line of his cheek where the man had struck him, and his heart ached for the boy.

The child had only been curious, meaning no harm when he had entered the pub. Dagarron wondered if

menfolk would ever seem less than malicious and cruel again in his frightened and impressionable regard.

"Ta se maith,” he said again.It is alright. “Ta ainm mo Dagarron. Cen t'ainm ata ort?”My name is

Dagarron. What is yours?

"Kierken,” the boy whispered. “Ta ... ta ainm mo Kierken."

"Ta tu diot a Donnag'crann, Kierken?” Dagarron asked him gently, drawing an uncertain nod from the

boy.You are of the Donnag'crann? “Carb as daoine eile? Do teaghlach? Do cairde?”Where are the

others? Your family? Your friends?

"Ni ... ni ta a fhios,” Kierken whispered, stricken.I do not know.

"Ni eagliann tu,” Dagarron said.Do not be frightened. “Ta me a'cara. Cuideoidh me feann iad.”I am a

friend. I will help find them.

He slipped his hand against the back of Kierken's head and when he drew the young Elf against his

shoulder, Kierken did not resist. He trembled against Dagarron, his breath ragged and fluttering as he

struggled to control his tears.

"Dtagann tu anois, a'leaid,” Dagarron murmured, turning his face toward the top of the boy's head.Come

now, lad. Dagarron rose to his feet, and the boy stood with him, shied closely against Dagarron's side,

his fingers clutching at his doublet.

"Kierken?” Dagarron heard someone call out over the din of the tavern. At the voice, the beckon, the

boy raised his head, his eyes flown wide. Dagarron followed the sound and saw four adult Donnag'crann

Elves wading through the crowd, their expressions alarmed.

"Kierken!” one exclaimed, catching sight of the boy. Kierken ducked from beneath the protective shelter

of Dagarron's arm and ran toward the older Elf.

"Athair!” he cried, rushing against the Donnag'crann, letting him enfold him in his arms.Father!

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The group of Donnag'crann moved to leave, drawing the boy protectively among them. The men within

the tavern still felt antagonistic and angry, and closed their ranks around the Elves, surrounding them

slowly and blocking their avenue of exit from the pub.

"Stand aside and let us pass,” one of the Elves said to the men. He was tall, with long, flaxen hair, nearly

white in hue. His eyes were a translucent and icy shade of blue. His expression was less than amused,

and the slight furrow between his brows deepened when none of the men made effort to step out of the

way. “Stand aside and let us pass,” he said again, coolly.

"Or what, Gaeilge?” one of the men said, smirking at him.

The Elf arched his eyebrow sharply. “Or I will move you,” he replied.

"Hoah, now—” the man exclaimed, curling his fingers against his palms and stepping toward the

Donnag'crann.

"Let them pass,” Dagarron said, catching him by the shoulder with his hand, staying his advance. “The

Donnag'crann are not our enemies. They have done their part to observe the peace. Let them take their

leave."

"Alright, what in the bloody wide Bith is going on here?” yelled Ambrose, the barkeep and owner of the

Fortune's Folly. He was an enormous man, built like a plow-ox: small head, broad shoulders,

barrel-chested. He waded into the throng bearing a stout wooden club and the gathering of men

immediately broadened in circumference around the Elves.

"I run a respectable establishment!” Ambrose bellowed. “If you seek a fracas, then seek it outside, the

rotted lot of you!"

One by one, the men turned away from Dagarron and the Elves, muttering to one another and sparing

scathing glowers as they slinked off to reclaim mugs of ale and cups of brimague. Within moments,

conversation resumed, rising once more in volume and from somewhere, someone began to blare out a

fresh tune on a fiddle.

Ambrose turned to regard the Donnag'crann, his brows narrowed. “This is neither the night nor the place

to be for Elves,” he told them. He nodded his chin toward the tavern entrance. “Get hence, all of you. I

do not do business with Donnag'crann."

"That is fair, as we neither seek it nor want it,” the flaxen-haired Elf replied.

Ambrose clapped a heavy hand against Dagarron's shoulder and steered him toward the bar as the

Donnag'crann took their leave. “I am surprised to have found you in the middle of that ruckus,

Dagarron,” he remarked.

"I do not abide by those who would frighten and hurt children in the name of my cousin's honor,”

Dagarron said. He sighed wearily, his expression mournful. “I doubt that boy will ever trust menfolk

again, Ambrose."

Ambrose shook his head. “Poor little lamb,” he remarked of the boy, Kierken. “That was right decent of

you, Dagarron.” He kept his arm against Dagarron's shoulder, guiding him aside, past the bar and toward

the rear exit of the pub.

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"What are you doing?” Dagarron asked.

"I thought you should know there is a woman out back near the stables asking for you."

"I am in no need of a woman tonight,” Dagarron said. “Only more brimague, Ambrose."

"She says it is an urgent matter,” the barkeep said.

Dagarron frowned. “I do not keep urgent matters with women."

"I think you will keep this, my friend,” Ambrose said in a low voice. “She says she has business with

you. Says it has to do with the Queen."

Dagarron found her sitting on some hay piled just inside the doorway of the stables, a young woman in

an olive-colored riding cloak that was at least two sizes too large for her diminutive frame. She held the

reins of a stout pony laden with a large wicker creel strapped to its saddle.

The woman started at the rustle of Dagarron's bootheels in gravel and hay outside the stable and hopped

quickly to her feet. She jerked a small ballock knife from beneath the folds of her cloak and thrust it

toward him.

Dagarron chuckled at her fierceness, which apparently did not endear him to her in the slightest. “What

do you want?” she snapped, shoving the tip of the dagger at him.

"I am Dagarron Atreile. You told the barkeep you wished to speak with me."

She lowered the hood of her cloak and narrowed her brows, peering closely at him. Her frown

deepened as she took into account his scruffy appearance: his unkempt beard, the dark circles beneath

his eyes, the gauntness in his cheeks born of too much grief and liquor and not enough food or sleep.

"You are Dagarron?” she exclaimed at length, in disbelief.

"I am,” he replied with a nod. “You must pardon my appearance, my lady. I was not expecting any

callers this evening."

She stared at him and he knew she doubted his word. But then her pony gave a snuffling noise, and he

heard the soft mewling of kittens from somewhere, perhaps a new litter born in the straw of the barn loft,

and the tip of her dagger lowered.

"I am Wyndetta Graegan,” she said as she tucked the blade back into her belt sheath. “Queen Lythaniele

sent me to find you."

"Then she's alive?” he whispered, his eyes wide, his heart seized with sudden, tremulous hope. “Tell me

she lives. Tell me she escaped the palace somehow."

Wyndetta's stern expression grew soft and saddened. “Lahnduren locked us in her tower chamber

together,” she whispered. “After he had murdered the King. She helped me escape, but she did not

follow. I do not think she could. She begged me to find you."

Dagarron lowered his face to the ground. He had been told Lythaniele had thrown herself from the

window of one of the palace towers. “If Lythaniele is dead, I do not understand,” he said. “Why she

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send you to find me?"

The soft whimpering of kittens came again and Wyndetta moved around to the side of her pony. She

unfastened the buckles of the creel and lifted the lid. He watched her reach inside and pull out a small,

wrapped bundle. As she cradled it in her arms, the bundle began to wiggle and the mewing Dagarron had

mistaken for the cries of newborn kittens came once more.

Wyndetta turned to him. With gentle fingers, she moved aside the folds of swaddling and he saw a baby,

a small and delicate creature, with eyes as blue as a calm lake on a windless morning peeking out from

the wrappings. He gasped audibly, and Wyndetta smiled. “Here,” she said and before he could protest,

she deposited the infant in his arms. She turned and produced a second swaddling-bound baby from

inside the creel.

Dagarron stared down at the child he held stiffly against the crook of his elbow. The baby stared up at

him in return, its little arms and legs wiggling beneath the swaddling clothes. A thin line of silvery drool

slipped out of its mouth and trailed down its chin as the baby squealed suddenly, happily.

"That is Isgaan, Herdranges and Lythaniele's firstborn, their son,” said Wyndetta, smiling as she nodded

toward the infant in his arms. “And this one is Isgaara, their daughter."

"The twins,” Dagarron whispered. He looked in breathless amazement at the squirming prince in his

arms.

"The rightful heirs to the throne of Tiralainn,” she said. “This is why my Lady sent me to find you,

Dagarron."

Chapter One

The year 1728 of the Third Age

The first time Qynhelein Reoder remembered seeing the little boy was when she was just six years old.

He appeared shortly after her mother died, and Qynh often wondered if her mind had somehow

produced the apparition in response to the horror and shock of that terrible afternoon.

Qynh remembered lying on her back on a quilt beneath a towering cottonwood tree, with a trunk so

large she could stand on one side and stretch her arms about it and her brother, Mahres, could stand

likewise on the other side and they could not clasp hands with each other. They were on the banks of the

Thiar River on a midsummer's afternoon: her father, Deog; mother, Evonne; Mahres and Qynh.

Evonne brought along a picnic lunch of red pears, butter cheese, bitter bread, and honey. Deog had

closed his blacksmith shop in the bustling seaside township of Lyhndale for the day and Qynh

remembered him laying on his side on the quilt, smiling at her, a long, green whip of witchgrass tucked

between his teeth.

Evonne strolled down to the river's edge, lifting up her skirts above her knees and dipping her toe into

the brown water. She was a Gaeilge Elf; her arms and legs were lean and preternaturally long, her bare

toes elongated and prehensile. Both attributes were holdovers from the days eons before when her

Gaeilge ancestors had dwelled exclusively among the tree tops of the arboreal southrealm, relying on

long, strong limbs and their feet as much as fingers for grasping and climbing.

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Evonne wriggled out of her skirt and underslips and tiptoed out into the river, giggling, clad in nothing but

her undergarments. Deog whistled wolfishly after her, and she frowned at him without really being sore as

she splashed water in his direction with the flat of her hand.

She danced out from the shore until the water met her mid-thigh and then she hooked her arms above

her head, pressed her hands together and dove beneath the surface. Her head popped up some lengths

from the riverbank and she bobbed there, laughing, the sunlight flashing off the water as it rippled in

concentric circles around her throat.

Qynh remembered lying on the quilt, turning her eyes from her mother and looking directly overhead.

She spied a large, black crow in an upper tree bough that seemed to be staring directly back at her with

tiny pinpoints of scarlet light instead of eyes.

She stared up at the raven, mesmerized by the glow of its eyes, and then her father's voice, sharp with

alarm startled her from her reverie. Qynh remembered Deog springing to his feet and staring out across

the surface of the water; her mother had dived down, her feet splashing against the top of the water

playfully in her wake but had not yet come up for air.

"Evonne!” Deog called, with a sharpness and alarm to his tone that had immediately drawn Qynh's

attention to the river. He plodded out into the water, holding his arms out at crooked angles as if he did

not want to get them wet.

Still, her mother did not resurface.

Deog screamed her name, swimming out to the point where she had vanished, his powerful arms pulling

him through the water. Qynh watched him open his mouth and suck in a whooping mouthful of air and

then he dove after Evonne, searching for her.

She had plunged too deeply into the brown depths and her arms had become entangled in a snare of

submerged driftwood, the rotted remains of a mighty oak's root system. Her arms had been trapped and

she had been unable to wriggle free. It took Deog seven tries, each time his head breaking the river's

surface, his mouth wide and gasping and then ducking down once more, before he finally wrenched her

poor, lifeless body from the drowned tree.

Two days later, when they lay her mother upon her bier and men from the village gathered to carry her

to her pyre, Qynh stood in front of the mirror in her bedroom and tried to braid her hair by herself for the

first time in her life. Evonne had always twisted the plaits for her, binding each in place with colorful

scraps of ribbon.

Qynh could not complete the task alone; her fingers were yet too small and not yet nimble enough, and it

was at this precise moment that it struck her that her mother was gone, her soul had traversed beyond the

physical world and made its way into the golden realm of Tirmaithe. She burst into sobs that wracked her

tiny body and drove her to her knees.

"Why are you crying?"

Qynh looked up, startled by the soft, tentative voice. The room was empty; no one stood before her.

She crept to her feet and looked into the mirror, dragging the cuff of her sleeve across her cheeks to dry

her tears.

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She saw a little boy in the mirror, like a phantom standing behind her, with enormous blue eyes the same

hue as her own, and a tangle of dark hair, just like hers. He looked to be her age and he regarded her

with such pity that her breath caught in her throat.

"Please do not cry,” the little boy said.

"My ... my momma has gone away,” Qynh whispered. “She will never be back and now I am all alone."

"No,” the boy said. He pressed his hand against the mirror; it was as though they stood in two rooms

separated only by a wall made of glass. “I am here. You are not alone."

Qynh brought her hand up slowly, hesitantly, and pressed it against the mirror, lining her fingers up

against his. They matched perfectly in width and length, as though each bore the same hand.

"My name is Qynh,” she told the little boy.

"My name is Trejaeran,” he replied, and he smiled at her.

He was not real; Qynh knew this in her mind, but it never stopped the phantom boy Trejaeran from

appearing during times in her life when she most needed someone to turn to. Each time, their greeting had

been the same, palm to palm, although it was always as though she touched mist or smoke; her hand

brushed against nothing tangible when she reached for him.

These visions persisted as she grew older, as did the recurring dreams of her mother drowning and the

ominous raven overhead with gleaming red eyes. Qynh wondered if somehow some portion of her mind

had snapped with grief over the loss of her mother.

While her father's mind had not necessarily snapped, it was apparent that some part of his heart had. In

the years after Evonne's death, Deog had receded like a shadow chased into a far corner by the light

from a lantern. He was up every morning before the sun cast even the faintest glow against the horizon.

He worked every day through in his smithy, not retiring from his labor until well after sundown. He wore

the years of harsh labor like a heavy cowl. Deep furrows weathered his brows and cleaved grim paths

between his nostrils and his chin. His mouth turned down at the corners in a perpetual grimace of intense

concentration.

There was an endless supply of work to occupy his time. The Belgaeran army, the Damantas, had

established a military outpost along the banks of the Thiar at the site of the Caladh Ferry nearly five years

earlier. Here, they had erected an enormous watch tower; a striking black fortress looming ominously

over the surrounding countryside. With their frightening array of armaments and armor and their battalions

of horses, the Damantas provided a skilled blacksmith like Deog Reoder with steady work, and steady

income. Day in and day out, he hammered away in the smithy, pounding out horseshoes, helms, sabers

and ax blades. His fingertips, the crescents of padded skin beneath the prosceniums of his nails and the

thick edges of his cuticles all stayed blackened and smutched with grease and soot, no matter how long

or how fervently he scrubbed.

On the morning of March fifteenth, the day of Qynh's sixteenth birthday, she awoke in her darkened

bedroom to the sound of her father weeping in the next room. She had never seen Deog cry, but she had

heard him many times; he often wept alone in his room, when he thought no one would hear.

Qynh would lie awake, moonlight spilling through her window across her quilts and downy blankets,

listen to her father's shuddering cries and weep silently herself, her tears trickling down from the corners

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of her eyes, dampening her pillow. She wept that morning, a girl who wanted desperately to assuage her

father's sorrow, yet remained helpless to offer him any sort of comfort. She pressed the side of her fist

against her mouth, pulling blankets up to her face to stifle the sounds of her own tears. “Oh, Poppa,” she

whispered softly into a handful of quilt.

A little bit later, she heard his bedroom door open, and then listened to his soft, shuffling footsteps as he

padded down the hallway. She heard hushed patters as he went down the stairs, the faint, metallic squall

of the kitchen door swinging on its rusted hinges, and the faint click as it fell shut behind him.

Qynh sat up and pushed aside her drapes. It was not yet dawn, and Deog was off to work already,

tromping across the shadow-draped yard toward the smithy to ignite his coals and furnaces. She turned

her head, meaning to lie back against her pillow, and caught sight of a young Gaeilge in the tree outside,

looking through the window at her. She blinked, startled, her breath catching in her throat.

He was the most beautiful being she had ever seen.

He regarded her with eyes as green and vibrant as new vernal foliage. His nose was long and tapered;

his cheeks high and elegant arches etched above the angle of his jaw; his brows narrowed along the

bridge of his nose and arched near his temples to lend his fair countenance an overall austere yet distinctly

noble air. His hair fell in a long sheaf to his hips, pulled away from his face in slender, bead-adorned plaits

that draped over his shoulders. His eyes met hers, holding her in place as surely as if he grasped her by

the shoulders, and then only leafy limbs in the old oak swayed and shivered in the space where she had

seen him. He was gone.

"Hoah—” Qynh whispered. She leaned out to peer more closely into the tree. “Hullo?” she called in a

soft, tremulous voice. The oak leaves whispered in reply. She rubbed her eyes with her hands and

peeped one last time. There was no one there.

"I must be going daft,” she muttered, lying down again, curling on her side beneath folds of quilts. She

was soundly asleep almost as soon as her head met her pillow.

Several hours later, the stomping of footfalls on the stairs jerked her from sleep and she sat up

immediately, dazed and alarmed. The door to her room flew open and Qynh yelped, startled and

frightened.

"Good morrow, birthday hen!” her older brother Mahres cried and Qynh laughed.

"Mahres, you goose! You nearly scared me witless!"

"Happy birthday, Qynh,” Deog said, leaning over to kiss her forehead. He pressed a small box wrapped

in blue paper against her palms and she blinked at him, surprised.

"What have you two done?” she asked. She peeled back the paper and lifted the lid, her eyes flying

wide.

"Poppa, Mahres, oh...” she murmured. She pinched a silver chain between her fingertips and pulled the

necklace out of the box. A pendant dangled at the end of the long, twined chain, a silver figure of a

Gaeilge woman standing in an exuberant pose, her arms outstretched above her head.

"It belonged to your mother, Qynh,” Deog told her in a soft voice. “I thought you might like to have it."

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Sara Reinke - The Chronicles of Tiralainn 2 - Book of Days

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