Dragonsphere (The Fallen King Chronicles Book 1) Read online

  “How was I supposed to know you would attack a fellow monk within our own walls?”

  Velkyn helped him to his feet. “Lesson learned. That is great news, my friend. What changed?” Calderon shrugged. “I’m not really sure. The Abbot came to my room and told me there were unforeseen circumstances.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. I’m going to ask master Donovan tonight.”

  “Who?”

  “Master Donovan, he is … or was, the Musician.”

  “Somehow, I knew you would be chosen. I appreciate you coming to tell me, but you really shouldn’t be here until you are supposed to play the music”

  Calderon wiped his face with the sleeve of his robe. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Go clean yourself up. Someone is bound to think you received a beating.” Velkyn grinned at him.

  • • •

  The day didn’t pass fast enough for Calderon. He went to the morning prayer ceremony, helped some of the newer monks with the cleaning tasks, and even spent some time in the library studying some old books about the sphere.

  As the daylight began to fade and candles started to be lit, his anxiety about being the new Musician returned. He was uneasy about it, but he was also excited. Unfortunately for him, the uneasiness seemed to outweigh his joy. How could one live their entire life leading up to a single moment with anticipation, and then be so afraid of what would come next?

  He met Donovan at the same chamber he played his music in. The old man was slightly shorter than him, about five feet tall. His head was shaved like all the other monks, but his wrinkles gave some hint to his age. He was one of those men who time had aged beyond years. His eyes were dark brown and seemed to pierce Calderon’s very soul.

  “Good evening,” Donovan greeted.

  Calderon returned the greeting and bowed his head to the old man. “The Abbot didn’t mention the reason for the change. Do you know what happened?”

  Donovan’s face softened with what appeared to be sadness. “Sevrin, though not my first choice, did well. He played the music under my supervision and did everything the way he should have. Afterward, he fell ill. We assumed it was a minor thing, perhaps some bad meat. But he did not survive through the night. The poor boy died in his sleep.”

  Calderon frowned. “My heart breaks at this news. I have to confess something.”

  Donovan raised his eyebrows.

  “I have worked and waited my whole life to be here, to be the Musician. But now that I am here and this is all happening, I am afraid. What if I mess up? What if I am not meant to be the Musician?”

  Donovan did not answer immediately. “The Divines work their will out in ways that we do not understand. Their ways are not our ways. Their thoughts are not our thoughts. Yet everything works out in the end the way it was meant to. Sevrin’s death is a part of their will, though how or why we will never know in this life. Fear is a natural response to the unknown. There is nothing wrong in being afraid. We all have fears; we are only men.”

  Donovan stared into Calderon’s eyes with that piercing gaze. “The true test of a man is not whether he is afraid or not, it is how he responds. I will be here to teach you and guide you as long as the Divines see fit. And when death comes to me as it comes to us all, you will be ready.”

  Calderon had a puzzled look on his face. “Ready for what?”

  “To be on your own, as the new Musician.”

  • • •

  Calderon found being the Musician to be less overwhelming than he expected. There were two things that Donovan was very specific about. The time that he began the music, and how long he played.

  “The enchantment that is bound within the metal of the sphere is old. It requires the music to be played daily to strengthen it. Every twenty four hours, to the minute, it must be played or else the enchantment will weaken.”

  “What happens if it weakens?” Calderon questioned.

  “The soul of the dragon that is captured within is a fire dragon. The enchantment keeps the sphere cold, which ensures the beast is trapped inside. If the enchantment weakens, the temperature of the metal drops. And if that were to happen, the dragon would be able to escape. Were the dragon to roam this world again … it would be the end of things as we know it.”

  The old man knew more about the sphere than any of the books he had read in the library. He was older than any of the other monks, older even than the former Guardian. Calderon didn’t like looking into the man’s eyes. His piercing gaze made him uncomfortable.

  “That is why you must never be late. The music must begin at the exact time, and it must be for a complete hour. If either of these guidelines are not kept, you endanger the entire world.”

  Calderon was silent in thought. “Why entrust something so important to the monastery? Why did the silversmith bring it to us? Why not destroy the dragon’s soul instead of trapping it?”

  Donovan shrugged his thin shoulders. “Why he chose to come here is a mystery. From what I have learned in all my years is that while a dragon’s body can be destroyed, its soul cannot. They are from a time and world beyond ours. There are tales of wizards from ancient times that had dealings with the beasts, but dragons are sly creatures and often betrayed the wizards. No one knows where they came from or how they came to be in our world.”

  “What if I fail?” Calderon asked, hesitating to ask such a dramatic question.

  Donovan didn’t answer. Instead, he led Calderon to the chamber of the sphere. They relieved Velkyn and entered the room. This would be the fifth night that he played the music. Each night became less stressful. His sleeping disorder even seemed less active than he could ever remember.

  He put the flute to his lips and began to play his music. Perhaps he had been wrong about his fears.

  • • •

  Velkyn had trained for years to make his mind more powerful than his body. Guarding a door that could be attacked for twenty-one hours a day, with only three hours to rest was no easy feat. The first couple days hadn’t been too difficult, but it was beginning to catch up to him. He desperately needed sleep. It was hard for him to keep his eyes open. They were beginning to water and his eyelids were so heavy. He managed to make it to his room and slump into his bed. Sleep overcame him almost immediately.

  His eyes shot open. How long had he been out? It felt like he had slept for hours. Panic gripped him as the thought that he might have overslept entered his mind. He heard a noise and sat up quickly.

  “It’s been a week since I’ve seen you,” a female voice echoed in the darkness. Velkyn turned toward the doorway, where he heard the voice.

  “Nydel … when did you get in here?” Velkyn whispered. He felt her soft hand touch the left side of his face.

  “Just now. Why haven’t you come to see me?” she whispered back, leaning in close.

  “I was chosen as the Guardian. I get relieved late in the evening.”

  She hopped into the bed and straddled him. “I’m so proud of you!” she said excitedly as she wrapped her arms around him.

  “Sshh! Not so loud, woman. Someone might hear you. I have to get back to my post soon. I only get three hours away.”

  “I saw you from down the hall, you just got in here. You must be exhausted,” she pouted. “You are probably too tired …” she said sensually. She pulled her shirt off and tossed it to the side.

  Velkyn shook his head and pulled her face close to his. “Mm … I missed you.”

  • • •

  Velkyn arrived back at his post just in time to meet Calderon and Donovan as they were leaving the chamber. Donovan didn’t say anything but continued on his way. Calderon stopped. “You look exhausted.”

  Velkyn waited until he didn’t see the old man anymore. “Nydel came to see me.”

  “Here?” Calderon asked incredulously.

  Velkyn smirked. “She’s amazing. I will make her my wife one day.” Calderon could only raise his eyebrows
in response. He knew that wouldn’t be very likely, but he didn’t want to point that out.

  “Are you going to attend the coronation?” Velkyn asked Calderon, abruptly changing the subject.

  “The entire monastery is attending.” Calderon responded. “Donovan just told me about it. How did you find out? And are you the only one guarding it?”

  Velkyn shrugged. “I honestly don’t know. I would imagine the other candidates will be under my supervision to keep it safe. I hear the king of Oakvalor will be present. Who knows what they might have planned. And anything that concerns the sphere comes to me first. After the Abbot, of course.”

  Calderon waited in silence a few moments to make sure Donovan was completely out of earshot. “I am playing the music by myself from now on. Donovan thinks his time is coming. I’m nervous about playing alone. What if—” Velkyn raised his hand to quiet his friend. “Trust in yourself, Calderon. You have too much fear about what might be, when you should live in what is. They were not wrong in choosing you. You’ll be fine.”

  Calderon wasn’t so sure of that.

  • • •

  It was hard for Calderon to believe it was time to play again. The days seemed to drown together. He had not seen Donovan at all since he played his music the night before. It was entirely possible he had passed during the night. Given the importance of the coronation, it was unlikely he would get the news of his mentor’s death.

  As he approached the sphere’s chamber, a tingly feeling spread down his back. He reached down to rub the spot and the feeling went away, but he didn’t feel right. He felt … off. Shaking his head, he continued on and relieved Velkyn from his duty. He pushed the door open and entered the dimly lit chamber, pausing to let his eyes adjust.

  It was almost time.

  Calderon placed the flute to his lips and breathed in deep.

  He opened his eyes and was looking up at the ceiling. A horrible feeling of dread washed over him. He had fallen asleep! Calderon struggled up to his feet and tried frantically to determine how much time had passed. He pulled the chamber door open just enough to look out. Velkyn was not back yet. Perhaps he had only dozed off for a short moment.

  He pushed the door shut and began to play his music like normal. As he played, he glanced around the room. The room was so dim, he wasn’t sure how much time had passed, if any at all. Perhaps he had passed out and not fallen asleep? He wasn’t sure. He eyed the sphere closely. It did not appear noticeably different, though he never really paid attention to what the sphere looked like. Calderon rested one hand on the sphere as he held a note on his flute.

  It was cool to the touch, but he had only touched it once before. Was it always cool to the touch? He couldn’t remember.

  Calderon was so engrossed with the sphere he did not hear the door swing open. “Calderon,” he heard Velkyn whisper. He spun around, startled by the sound. Velkyn stood in the doorway motioning him. “Your hour has passed, my friend. Come, your duty is complete for today. The sphere must be readied for the coronation tomorrow.”

  Calderon nodded, unsure of how long he had played his music anyway. He assumed he had played long enough to keep the enchantment strong. He left the chamber and stood in the hallway as Velkyn shut the door. “I will see you at the palace tomorrow. Do you suppose we will meet the new king?” Calderon asked as Velkyn took his post.

  “If the Divines see fit to allow it,” Velkyn responded. “You look pale. You should get some rest. Wait …” Velkyn’s voice lowered. “you didn’t fall asleep, did you?”

  “No, I didn’t.” Calderon lied. “I just feel a little weak now. I will see you tomorrow at the coronation. It will be exciting to see what lies outside these walls.”

  As troubled as Calderon was about his sleeping disorder having roused its ugly head, he had little difficulty sleeping through the night. As the light of dawn shown through the small window of his room, he was readying himself to see the palace for the first time in his life.

  “The single most appalling atrocity perpetrated on the world happened when a mysterious man made the king believe the Divines were real. The horrible truth is this: they are the product of make-believe by a man who crafted his own religion. Because of this, the true knowledge of the Creator of our world may be forever lost.”

  - Jasiel

  Former priest

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The palace was buzzing with rumors. Prince Ranaan sifted through the conversations of the servants as they dashed about, whispering in not-so-quiet tones. He feigned ignorance and continued making his way through the vast hallways that led above ground and to the throne room. The servants were always full of gossip and sharing the latest intrigue, but today was different.

  Today, there was talk of death.

  Barely reaching five feet, Ranaan was not an intimidating figure. His hair was black and of medium length, usually tied in a pony-tail. His bangs hung down in sharp points and he was always pushing them aside. His eyes were an icy blue and stood out vividly when he wore his formal white uniform. The youngest of his father’s two sons, he would not take the throne but instead would be allowed to do with his life as he chose.

  He reached the hidden doorway that led to the section of the castle that was above ground. At the end of the hallway was two massive wooden doors. As he approached he was greeted by two guards, one at each side of the entrance. They bowed low at his arrival. They grunted as they pushed the doors open, bowing once more as Ranaan swept past them without acknowledgement. The audience room was an enormous circular chamber. It was usually filled with nobles, but today it was empty.

  His father was seated on the throne, a large oak chair plated in gold and silver. His brother, the heir to the throne, stood attentively at his side.

  “You called for me father?” His voice echoed in the empty chamber.

  Dagmar, his brother, had a grave look on his face. “He can’t speak, Ranaan. His condition has worsened. The healers said” his voice cracked and he paused. The emotional turmoil was obvious. “They said he won’t make it through the night.”

  Ranaan stood in silence, unsure how to take the news. He loved his father dearly, but the man was nearing ninety and time had not been kind to him. A disease of the mind had consumed him and he was no longer the man Ranaan remembered. It was a confusing mix of emotions. Sadness at the imminent death of his father, but relief that his suffering would soon be at an end.

  Byramm, the royal chamberlain, made his presence known by coughing softly. “Your Highness’s,” he greeted solemnly. “You know what this means.”

  Dagmar looked to Ranaan. “Do you object?”

  “You know I don’t,” Ranaan replied, lowering himself to one knee. “I support your reign as king.” He lowered his head in homage.

  Their father, in a rare show of normalcy, reached up weakly and pulled his crown off. He looked at Dagmar and mouthed something unintelligible. Dagmar hesitantly took hold of the crown. Lifting it up, he stared at the large black diamond in its center. He looked to Ranaan, then to the chamberlain, and lastly, his father.

  The old king nodded his head slowly. Dagmar placed the crown on his own head.

  “Long live the king,” Ranaan said.

  There was complete silence. Byramm waited a few moments to speak, not wanting to ruin the moment. “My Lord’s, I do not wish to rush your mourning, but there are things that need to be done. We must announce the coronation and summon the monks from the Abbey to bring the sphere.” Byramm eyed Dagmar critically. “And we must summon the tailor.”

  • • •

  “There is one more thing, brother.” The tailor was busy taking Dagmar’s measurements, her hands a flurry of fingers and measuring tape.

  Ranaan looked questioningly at his brother.

  “I am announcing a truce with Oakvalor.”

  Ranaan’s face turned incredulous. “What! There hasn’t been peace since … since anyone can remember. At least, not a real peace. How in the Divines are you g
oing to manage a truce?”

  “Marriage.”

  The tailor produced a plush violet robe and placed it over Dagmar’s shoulders. Using needles and some sort of sticky parchment, she marked out where she would need to make cuts in the material. “I am going to marry the princess of Oakvalor. It is going to be announced at the coronation.”

  Ranaan was at a loss for words. “It is what is best for the people of our kingdom. And theirs. Enough blood has been shed in a war that neither side can win. No one can even remember how it started or why. It is time to leave our feuds in the past and work toward a better future.”

  Ranaan looked at his brother in a new light. He seemed wiser somehow. “It makes sense to me, brother. I’m not sure how the people will accept it. War is all we know. I stand behind any decision you make. And I will stand behind this one. My heart says peace would be a nice change, but my mind doesn’t know what peace is.”

  “My prayer and my hope is that we can change that.” Dagmar looked at himself in the mirror. “Do I look like a king?” he asked jokingly. Ranaan chuckled softly. He had to wonder if Dagmar meant ‘we’ as in he and his bride to be, or together as brothers. He supposed it didn’t matter so long as the people of the kingdom were happy.

  “You look noble to me, but what do I know?”

  • • •

  “No, no, no! You will stand here,” the chamberlain screeched, pointing to a specific stone on the floor. Raanan rolled his eyes at the old man. He reminded Raanan of his grandmother, wrinkly and decrepit. Between the heat and the old man’s irritating voice, it was all he could do not to snap. “Why does it matter where we stand, Byramm?”