The Dawning of Power

Chapter 1

The wise old wolf is not wise because he's a wolf, but because he's old. -Javid Frederick, farmer

Floating in a haze of semiconsciousness, Catrin wondered if she were dead. Death had claimed her; she knew it had. Her body had failed, unable to cope with the stresses applied by so much power. Yet it did not feel like death; something of life remained. Unable to define it, she searched for what seemed an eternity. Beyond the haze of sleep, something called to her, demanding her attention. It would not be denied, and it found her.

It was an itch.

Refusing to allow rest, it demanded she notice and, at the very least, scratch. Driven by the nagging irritation, she tried to move, and the sensations of her body slowly returned. The painful tingling of flesh left too long without blood ravaged her, and her leaden limbs failed to respond, refused to answer her desperate call for motion. Unable to lift her arms, she struggled to see what bound her and held her fast.

Her eyelids were crusted shut as if they were glued in place. Unwilling to relent, she forced them open. Soft light was like a furious blaze, daring her to see. Still she insisted, and the clouds in her eyes faded enough for her to see the face of an unfamiliar man hovering over her. Fear impaled her.

"Benjin," she tried to say through parched lips, needing his strength more than ever before. But her ears heard only an incoherent mumble, as even her voice refused to do her bidding.

"A moment, m'lady," the stranger said. "Only a moment and he'll be here. He's been by your side for days, but exhaustion overcame him." Another figure darted from the shadows and out of the room before Catrin could see who it was.

Her efforts drained the little energy she possessed, but she would not allow herself to succumb, afraid that, if she let herself sleep, she might never wake again. Holding her eyes open by the sheer force of her will, she endured pain with every involuntary blink, but her vision grew clearer, and the fog began to lift from her mind. When Benjin arrived, the concern on his face made her wonder how horrible she must look.

"It's good to see you awake, li'l miss," he said, obviously trying to be cheerful despite her condition.

When Catrin tried to reply, her parched throat ached and she could only cough.

"Get her some water," Benjin said to Morif, who waited in the shadows. He filled a small cup and handed it to Benjin, who held it to Catrin's mouth. She let it pour over her lips, and she rolled it over her tongue before swallowing. Water slid down the back of her throat and tickled, resulting in another fit of coughing, but at least her throat was now moist. She wanted to drain the entire cup, but Benjin gave her only a small amount more before he set the cup aside. "Can you talk?"

"I think," she said, but she had to stop and swallow. "I think I can." Even as she spoke, though, the itching overpowered her. Feeling began to return to her limbs. Her arm moved, unwieldy and slow, and her fingers curled to scratch her side.

Benjin gently took her hand. "You must not scratch no matter how bad it itches."

Catrin looked at her hand. Layers of dead skin, peeled and cracked, encased her like a dried husk, and her blackened fingernails curled back away from the nail beds. Despair shadowed her soul. How could she go on like this? Who had done this to her?

Barabas.

The name was like a sledge landing between her ears. He had done this to her. She had been ready to depart this world, but Barabas somehow sent her back. This was his fault, and she hated him for it. Tears stung her eyes and tickled the sides of her face. She wanted to reach up and soothe it, but she could not. Even if she'd had the will to raise her arm and scratch with her wasted nails, Benjin would stop her, and she hated him for that. "Go away. All of you. Get out."

Benjin frowned, and she thought he would resist, but he nodded slowly. "Rest some more for now, li'l miss. Things'll be better when you next wake."

"Leave me alone," she said, hating herself for it.

Weeks passed as Catrin recovered. Her fingernails fell off, and eventually she was allowed to rub away the dead skin. Still she itched. Her skin appeared whole, but it was as if the air itself offended the new skin, leaving it blotchy and irritated. Slowly, her strength returned, and when Benjin arrived for one of his daily visits, she actually smiled.

"Would you like to walk?" he asked, and her soul soared. The thought of getting out of bed, standing upright, and walking in the sunlight thrilled her. She was ready-more than ready. Benjin moved to her side and helped her sit up, but her confidence faltered. The world moved unpredictably, swaying from side to side, and her stomach protested.

"Deep breaths. Be calm. Close your eyes if it helps."

It didn't help. Instead she focused on the doorway. Concentrating on the angles, knowing what they should look like, she willed her mind to see it the way it truly was. Gradually it stopped moving, and it felt like a victory when Catrin saw clean, right angles. After a few more deep breaths, she nodded to Benjin; she was ready. He eased her legs over the side, and the cold stone felt good under her feet. She wobbled as she stood, and she leaned on Benjin heavily at times, but she was standing-another victory. They did not walk in the sunlight as she had hoped, but even darkened halls were far better than being confined to bed.

After he'd helped her back into bed, Benjin handed her a small mirror. "Don't be alarmed," he said.

When she mustered the courage to look, she saw a stranger. Her skin was reddish and looked as if it would crack into a thousand pieces if she moved too quickly, but it was her hair that brought tears to her eyes. Still short, the tips looked as her hair always had, but the roots were as white as goose down.

"I look like an old woman."

"It's not so bad," he said, "and it may wear off. You're already looking better. Do you want me to cut it for you?"

"No," Catrin said. The part of her hair that retained its color was a part of her old self, and she refused to let go of it. So many things about her and her world had changed, and she clung to anything that reminded her of her old life; precious little remained, and she cried herself to sleep.

Each day brought new challenges and new accomplishments. Training herself as she would a horse, Catrin walked a little farther every day, slowly rebuilding her strength and endurance. During this time, she learned of things that happened after the destruction of the statue. Barabas's body had not been found, as if he had disappeared into the statue. Morif and Millie had dragged Catrin and Benjin away from the arena, searching for a place to hide.

People began to rise up against the Zjhon, and most within Adderhold sought to flee, but one man came looking for Catrin: Samda, a Zjhon Master and former servant of Archmaster Belegra.

"He's shown nothing but compassion for you," Millie said. "He's kept us hidden and safe. You can trust him."

Catrin didn't believe a word of it. How could a Zjhon Master want anything other than her death? Yet he could have had them killed or imprisoned and had not. He could have left her to die but had not.

"Why did you come to our aid?" she asked him one day.

"I did what I believed was right, m'lady."

"And when the Zjhon invaded the Godfist, did you believe that was right?"

"At the time, m'lady, I did," Samda replied, his eyes downcast.

"But you no longer believe that?" she asked, and he only shook his head in response. "What changed your mind?"

"Many things, m'lady: the explosion of the statue in the Westland, Archmaster Belegra's disregard for human life, and his refusal to admit he'd been wrong. He chose, instead, to make up lies about you, and that I could not abide. But mostly, m'lady, it was you," Samda said, meeting her eyes. She saw no guile there, no deception, only deep regret.

"What about me?"

"At first, it was your presence here when the other statue exploded. I could find no way to explain it. There was only one logical conclusion: we, the Zjhon, had been wrong. We had interpreted the holy writings to say what we wanted them to say. I suspected it many years ago, but I could not discard my beliefs so easily. Can you imagine suddenly realizing that everything your family ever taught you was false? It wasn't easy, but you and Archmaster Belegra convinced me. He threw away lives as if they were of no value, and even as men sought to end your life, you wept for them." Tears filled his eyes.

"I didn't want to believe, even then," Samda continued, "but how could I deny it? I considered fleeing with the rest, but where would I have gone? What would I have done? How could I have lived with myself, knowing so many lives had been lost because of my folly? I could not. I had to find some way to right my wrongs and those committed by the Zjhon empire. I had to help you, and I made my decision. I stopped thinking and started acting. I brought you here so you could heal in safety."

Here turned out to be a complex of caves and tunnels, deep beneath Adderhold.

"There were only a few within Adderhold that know this level of catacombs exist, and of those, I am the only one remaining," Samda said. "The rest have either fled with Belegra and his elite guards or have disappeared."

"What of Belegra? Where do you think he has gone?"

"I believe he seeks the Firstland, m'lady," Samda said. "I was not privy to all his plans, and we did not often discuss the possibility of defeat; it seemed unlikely. But I do know that he'd been studying ancient texts, searching for sources of power. I suppose that is the greatest irony. He speaks of your powers as abominations, yet he seeks those very same powers with relentless ambition, and it seems he has talents of his own-as you have seen for yourself."

"The power to coerce and enslave?" Catrin asked, a fury rising within her. "Yes. I've witnessed it." It was that power that held Prios in thrall and prevented his freedom. The connection between her and Prios was difficult to understand, but she was connected to him nonetheless, and she detested Archmaster Belegra's mistreatment of him. "Who are the robed figures he used to attack me?"

"His cadre, as he calls them. They are from all over the Greatland, ranging from highborn to slave. Before the appointed time of Istra's return, Belegra gave orders: Anyone who manifested powers of any kind was to be brought to him, in shackles if need be. I know not how he learned to coerce them and use their powers, but I fear he seeks even greater and more dangerous arcana within the halls of the ancients."

Catrin wanted to ask about Prios, but she did not yet fully trust Samda, and she decided to keep their connection a secret. "Is the location of the Firstland known?"

"Not to me, m'lady, and if Belegra knew, he'd have kept the knowledge hidden. It's a long-standing Zjhon practice-keep secrets close and only ever reveal part of the truth. This is how the Godfist was taken by surprise, you see. Hundreds of years ago, when the Zjhon held the only copies of many ancient texts, new copies were created and filled with false information. Rather than remove the sections that told when Istra would return, our ancestors changed the dates-among other things-while preserving the original texts in sacred vaults."

Catrin swayed as the past began to make sense. Benjin had once said that the Vestrana's calculations had been wrong, and now she knew why. Things could have been much different had they known the truth.

"I know not what Belegra will find, if anything. He goes in search of legends and myths, believing he will find Enoch and Ain Giest still alive… or maybe even dragons."

"Dragons?"

"Indeed, m'lady, dragons," Samda replied, and he drew a deep breath. "Legends say they were a source of incredible power. Unfortunately, there are very few details in the texts. It seems dragon lore was such common knowledge in those times that it was either not written down or not preserved. We've found vague references but nothing to indicate exactly what kind of power they possessed or how it came to be harnessed by men. The only thing I can say for certain is that, at one point in our history, man and dragon worked together."

Catrin's imagination conjured skies filled with mighty wizards on the backs of dragons. It was both thrilling and terrifying.

"Belegra also seeks knowledge, which is power in itself. In particular, I believe he searches for the locations of the other Statues of Terhilian."

"What?" Catrin asked, agape. "How many statues are there?"

"I cannot be sure, but I believe four-possibly five-were buried before they exploded. Of those, two have been found. That would leave the possibility of three unaccounted for."

Three statues-they could be buried just about anywhere, and they could explode at any time, even if left underground. There seemed no way to evade the impending disaster. Frustrated, Catrin changed the subject. "What about the Zjhon armies? Where are they now?"

"I can't say for certain. The siege on Ohmahold has most likely been called off since you are obviously no longer there, and I assume Belegra will join his forces with those of General Dempsy. With the ships that returned from the Godfist, they could sail with a sizable army."

"Still, there would be a considerable force left behind, and they may be coming to retake Adderhold," Benjin added.

"Indeed, and we should not be here when they arrive, but where will we go?" Samda asked, and silence hung in the air.

Catrin was torn. Part of her wanted to go south to meet Chase, as they had planned, but another part wanted to return to Ravenhold, and yet another part wanted to return to Ohmahold. In the back of her mind, though, when she put aside her responsibilities, she wanted most to return to the Godfist. Any road she chose would be perilous; every choice would leave her vulnerable in some way. "South," she said, her mind made up; she would not abandon Chase.

"With an army possibly coming from the north, I'd say that's a wise choice," Benjin said. "With any luck, your cousin will already have transport to Ohmahold arranged."

Samda raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

Millie, though, stood in the corner with her hands on her hips. "You would leave your grandmother to suffer the wrath of the Kytes alone?"

"I can only be in one place at a time. I promised Chase I would meet him. I made no such promise to my grandmother. She'll have to wait for now, but I'll return to Ravenhold when I can," Catrin replied, and Millie pursed her lips.

Morif chuckled.

"What are you laughing at?" Millie asked.

"The girl's got fire. You must grant her that," he replied, smiling. "I like a girl with fire."

Millie just crossed her arms and cast angry glances around the room.

"The more immediate problem is how to get out of Adderhold," Benjin said. "I'd rather not be seen if possible."

"There is a way, but we should leave soon," Samda said.

"Do you feel strong enough to travel, li'l miss?"

"I'm ready," she lied.

Through darkened halls, Samda led them, only the light of his lamp guiding the way. Catrin leaned on her staff, her fingers resting in the impressions left by her grip during the destruction of the statue-a silent reminder. Though the staff had been dull and ashen when Benjin returned it to her, its sheen was beginning to return, and the torchlight danced across its surface.

After a meandering trek through the underbelly of Adderhold, Samda stopped at a corner that looked no different from the rest, ran his hands along the wall, and pushed open a hidden door. Inside, a narrow flight of rough-hewn stairs descended into the darkness. A cool breeze carried the smell of the sea, and around a bend in the stair, yellowish moonlight danced across dark water. A small landing jutted into the water, and moored there was a sailing vessel large enough to carry roughly a dozen people.

"Very few know this place exists. I doubt anyone is watching the outlet, but we must be as quiet as possible."

They boarded the boat, retrieved the lines, and using the four rows of oars, paddled toward the moonlight. The opening in the cavern wall was tall and slender. Beyond it stood a ring of towering stones, seemingly barring their path, but as they approached, a narrow channel became visible between two rows of massive stones. There was little room for mistakes, and despite their efforts, they grazed the rocks twice before gaining open water.

A haze blurred the stars and gave the moon a brownish tint, as if the skies were tainted. Still, the light of distant comets bolstered Catrin's strength; energy soaked into her bones and warmed her against the chill wind that descended from the west. The sails snapped taut as they were raised, and with Benjin's help, Samda guided the ship into deep water, far from either shore.

"It's dangerous for us to go out this far in such a small craft, but I think we should get south of Waxenboro, where the lands are much less populated, before we go near shore. We can't go too far, though. South of Mahabrel the Inland Sea becomes much more dangerous and unpredictable. I wouldn't advocate crossing in this boat," Samda said. As if to prove his point, the growing waves tossed them about, nearly capsizing the small craft.

Weakness still caused Catrin to tremble, but she felt much better breathing the salty air. Her body might never be able to do things it had once done, but she was determined to try. Barabas had said her work was not yet done, and she tried to prepare herself for whatever might come next.

After taking a deep breath, Catrin reflexively raised her hand to her hair. She could not feel where the translucent whiteness ended and the remaining color began, but she knew it was there-a crutch. Using her knife, she hacked away the color, shearing the ties to her childhood and embracing the future. No longer could she afford to be a frightened little girl, holding on to relics of the past for the comfort they brought. She needed to face her future with confidence and purpose. As an offering to the sea, she cast her hair into the waves, and with it went one of the shadows that had been haunting her soul. She felt freed and renewed, but these feelings were accompanied by a great weariness. Knowing she needed sleep in order to heal, Catrin calmed her mind and meditated herself to sleep.

Moving through the darkness, Chase cursed every branch that snapped beneath his boots. Fasha had given him no reason to believe the people here would be hostile, but she hadn't given him any indication that they would be friendly either. All he knew was approximately where to find this woman named Madra and that he could trust her. Fasha had given him directions and even drawn him a map, but he feared he was hopelessly lost, and the thought of finding someone to ask made him feel ill. These people had more reason to fear him than to trust him, and he decided he would keep searching, even if he had to retrace his steps back to the shoreline and begin his journey again.

Just as the thought entered his mind, Chase caught a flash of light through the trees and his hopes soared. Fasha had said that Madra's farm was isolated from the others, like an island within a sea of trees, but he had not thought it could possibly be this deep in the forest. As he cleared the last of the trees and entered a field of tall grass, he stood bathed in pale, yellowish light. Ahead lay lands that seemed to have once been manicured but now were being reclaimed by weeds. Pastures were fenced only in spirit; lines of posts held an occasional slat between them but would keep in no horses or livestock. A feeling of sadness overcame him as he used the tree line for cover, seeing visions of his own homeland, abandoned and neglected. Tears filled his eyes.

When he reached the nearest barn, he was again dismayed by the state of disrepair. Most of the roof had collapsed, and much of what had once been in the hayloft now clogged the aisle as it seemed the ceiling, too, had succumbed to neglect. Staying to the shadows, Chase moved ever closer to the dim light that danced around the edges of a doorframe. Like a distant ray of hope, it drew him forward and banished his fear. When he reached the door, he knocked softly. No answer came. After a moment of trepidation, he pushed open the door. His eyes were met by a contradiction. Inside, sitting alone at a table with nothing but a jar of whiskey and a glass, waited Madra.

A fierce and strong spirit huddled within an aging body. Eyes that spoke of a stone will were rimmed with tears, and a powerful jaw trembled as it tried to hold back the pain. At first, she did not even acknowledge his presence. Instead, she poured another drink. "And who might you be?" she finally asked without looking up.

"My name is Chase," he said when she raised her eyes and met his gaze. He tried to say more, but his knees suddenly felt weak, and his hands began to tremble. He could feel Madra's pain and could think of no words that would be meaningful in the face of such despair.

"I've no patience for halfwits, boy. Go on. Talk. Who sent you?"

"Fasha," he managed to say.

"Let me guess: You came looking for help?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Madra just nodded, bit her lip, and poured her last drink. For a time she simply sat and stared at it. After a few moments, though, she picked it up, stood, and walked outside. Chase followed. Beneath the moon, stars, and comets, Madra stood silent for some time, tears falling to the dusty soil beside her tattered boots. In the end, she raised her glass to the gods: "I beg for help, and you send me those in need. I ask for mercy, and you further test my will. Fine. Have your joke, you thankless jackals. I'll just have to clean up this mess myself!" she said just before she downed her last drink. "Come on, pup. We've work to do."

As he followed Madra back into her home, Chase wondered what he'd gotten himself into.

When the sun rose, casting a glow across the water, neither shore was visible; only the location of the sun guided them. The winds had taken a southerly turn and grown fierce; their boat cut the waves under full sail, riding the growing swells. With no point of reference, it looked to Catrin as if they were moving slowly, but occasional flotsam appeared in the water and was soon lost in the distance.

"We must get closer to shore before the sea claims us," Benjin shouted to Samda, and they set a westerly course.

By midday, the western coast came into view. The land was mostly forested, and only occasional farmsteads and mills gave any indication of inhabitation. But as the day wore on, the smell of smoke grew heavy on the air, and the setting sun backlit columns of smoke, red and orange, making it appear as if the sky were on fire.

"Perhaps we should move back into deeper water," Benjin said as they neared the coast. The columns of smoke were now close, and acrid clouds rolled over the water. As they passed an isolated farmstead, a band of mounted men appeared, raiding and setting the buildings afire.

"Bandits and thugs," Morif said. "The Zjhon weakened all the lands, and now that they've been routed, anarchy reigns." Samda flushed and kept his eyes downcast. "I mean you no insult, Samda. You've been good to us, but the Zjhon have set the Greatland on a path to destruction." Millie stood, tight-lipped, and cast scathing glances at Morif, but he seemed not to notice as he watched the raiders move on. "There's little food to be had, and too many young folk are dead, with the Zjhon armies, or on the Godfist. If order is not restored, there'll be nothing left to raid by spring."

Catrin watched the razing of the farmstead in horror, seeing visions of her own home destroyed, but she stifled her tears. "Turn back east," she said. "I don't want to land near here." Benjin nodded at her statement.

"The southern waters are far too dangerous," Samda said. "Storms and massive waves strike without warning. It'd be wiser to skirt the western coast and look for a safer place to land," Samda said.

Catrin got a cold feeling in her stomach when she looked at the burning farmstead, and she decided to trust her instincts. "No," she said. "We will risk the crossing."