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  DREAMS

  OF THE

  DARK

  SKY

  BOOKS BY TINA LECOUNT MYERS

  The Legacy of the Heavens

  The Song of All

  Dreams of the Dark Sky

  THE LEGACY OF THE HEAVENS

  BOOK TWO

  DREAMS

  OF THE

  DARK

  SKY

  TINA LECOUNT

  MYERS

  Night Shade Books

  New York | New Jersey

  Copyright © 2019 by Tina LeCount Myers All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Start Publishing LLC, 101 Hudson Street, 37th Floor, Jersey City, NJ 07302.

  Night Shade Books® is an imprint of Start Science Fiction.

  Visit our website at www.nightshadebooks.com.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: LeCount Myers, Tina, author.

  Title: Dreams of the dark sky / Tina LeCount Myers.

  Description: New York : Night Shade Books, [2019] | Series: The legacy of the heavens ; Book 2

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018042910| ISBN 9781597809559 (hardback : alk. paper) | ISBN 9781597809566 (pbk. : alk. paper) Subjects: | GSAFD: Fantasy fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3612.E3365 D74 2019 | DDC 813/.6--dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018042910

  Cover illustration by Jeff Chapman

  Cover design by STK•Kreations

  Hardcover ISBN: 978-1-59780955-9

  Trade paperback ISBN: 978-1-59780956-6

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-59780-624-4

  Printed in the United States of America

  For Jürgen

  A cast of characters and two glossaries, one for English and another for Jápmemeahttun terms, can be found in the back of this book.

  Dreams of the Dark Sky is the second book of the Legacy of the Heavens.

  The first, The Song of All, introduced readers to the worlds of the Jápmemeahttun and the Olmmoš.

  First among those created by the gods, the Jápmemeahttun lived in harmony on the fringes of the tundra until their numbers grew so large that they overwhelmed their lands. As they struggled to survive, the gods took pity and gave them a gift. The Jápmemeahttun would live their lives in two halves: the first as female and the second as male, and as one soul prepared to leave the world, another prepared to give birth. The life force of the gods would pass through the old soul into the unborn, giving the baby life and turning the mother’s gender to male in the process. In this way, balance was soon restored to their population.

  When the Olmmoš humans walked out of the east with their odd ways and their strange animals, the Jápmemeahttun welcomed them and taught them how to live upon the ice and snow and find light in the endless darkness. But over time, the humans grew wary of their guardians, whose lives seemed to stretch on forever. What started as an affinity between two peoples ended in enmity as the humans rebelled against the authority of those they called the Immortals.

  For generations, battles between humans and Immortals raged on, until the Immortal Elders discovered the Song of All. Believed to be a gift from the gods, the Song of All acted as a veil to shield the Immortals from human eyes so the two tribes could live in the same world and never interact. This fragile peace held for almost a hundred seasons of snow, until the Brethren of Hunters began to seek out the reclusive Immortals to regain their wartime power, now challenged by the priestly Order of Believers.

  Raised by the Brethren, Irjan had avenged his family, slain by rogue Immortals, by becoming the most skilled among the Hunters. He eventually grew weary of bloodshed, though, and fled to live a peaceful life as a farmer, husband, and father. But when he came upon his wife and infant son moments before they died, Irjan suspected the Brethren. Even as he mourned his wife’s death, Irjan tracked the Immortals deep into the snow-covered forest in the hope that their legendary powers would bring his infant son, Marnej, back to life.

  The Jápmemeahttun life bringers Aillun and Djorn had journeyed together to their Origin to give birth. The inherent danger in this sacred ritual was compounded when they heard a human voice within the Song of All. As Aillun started to give birth and Djorn, the ancient warrior, began to die, Irjan ambushed them. Thrusting his infant son into the light emanating from the old Immortal’s body, Irjan brought Marnej back from the dead. But Aillun’s subsequent death left Irjan responsible for Dárja, the infant Immortal she had birthed.

  Dávgon, the Brethren leader, dispatched his best hunters to bring back the traitor Irjan to serve the Brethren’s cause or forfeit his life for his earlier betrayal. Irjan, to elude his former comrades, set off for the Northland, where he had once safely traveled. But Irjan’s skills as a Hunter had not prepared him to care for two infants, and he was forced to rely upon the aid of strangers. Drawn into a Brethren trap, Irjan’s life was saved by Kalek, an Immortal healer who had been heart-pledged to Aillun. Together, Irjan and Kalek protected the infant Dárja, but could not prevent the Brethren from kidnapping Marnej.

  Kalek soon learned that Aillun had made Irjan Dárja’s guardian. Torn between his duty to his people and his lost love, Kalek brought Irjan to the Immortal Elders and what he thought was safety. The Elders knew what Irjan had not yet accepted—the human Hunter, in fact, had dual heritage, and possessed the unique ability to enter the Song of All as if he were a Jápmemeahttun. But his arrival among them bound the Elders to choose between protecting their kind from the humans and respecting Irjan’s right to live as one who had both human and Immortal blood. Their compromise to imprison Irjan temporarily staved off discontent.

  While imprisoned, Irjan consoled himself with his friendship with Kalek and his responsibility for Dárja. However, he continued to harbor plans to rescue Marnej from the Brethren, who would turn his son into a killer. Irjan escaped at the first opportunity, forcing Kalek to choose between his new friendship and his tribe. Convinced by Irjan that his son’s freedom would serve the Immortals, Kalek fought alongside his friend until he was wounded. When it became clear there was no hope of rescuing his son, Irjan chose to save Kalek’s life, returning with him to the Northland, where he and Dárja were reunited. Irjan spent the next sixteen seasons of snow as a prisoner, teaching Dárja what he knew best—how to fight.

  Dávgon, the Brethren leader, aware of Marnej’s Immortal blood and the unique abilities he possessed because of it, used Irjan’s now-grown son to track the Immortals and foment war between the two tribes. When Marnej entered the Song of All, the Immortal Elders realized there was no hope for peace. Dárja, who had grown into a skilled fighter, ardently supported the call to war. However, the revelation that she would never experience a fully Immortal life because of Irjan’s interference in her birth confirmed her fear that Irjan had always loved his son, Marnej, more than her. Determined to prove herself a true Immortal warrior, Dárja secretly joined the warrior ranks to confront the humans, unaware that Irjan had also joined as a last attempt at redemption.

  When the Immortal warriors used the Song of All to attack the human soldiers in the Great Valley, Marnej pushed his way into the mêlée, anxious to demonstrate his loyalty to the Brethren. While Dárja fought her way through the human ranks, Irjan gave his life to protect his Immortal comrades when the tide turned against them. Decimated by the human victory in the Great Valley, the remaining Immortal warriors withdrew into the Song of All while Dárja was taken prisoner. At the Brethren’s fortress, Dárja and Marnej confronted their shared past and discovered, to their surpris
e, the potential of their tenuous future.

  DREAMS

  OF THE

  DARK

  SKY

  Part One

  LOST TO THE SONG

  CHAPTER ONE

  KALEK PICKED AT THE meager meal of stewed rabbit and bitter greens. He ate out of habit, out of a healer’s instinct to sustain his body, but, more and more, he wondered why he bothered.

  A suppressed giggle broke through the hushed atmosphere in the dining hall. Kalek looked up from his bowl. Two young nieddaš sat with their heads together. One had a hand over her mouth. Her shoulders shook with laughter. The boaris scattered about the dining hall continued to eat. The old showed no interest in the lives of the young.

  Once a lively center for sharing meals, the dining hall had become cheerless in the moon cycle since the battle with the Olmmoš. It was impossible to enter a common area and not think of those who had died defending their kind in the last battle. The Jápmemeahttun had believed the power of the Song of All would preserve peace by keeping them safely hidden. But the Olmmoš could not live in peace, and Kalek cursed the day they had walked out of the eastern dawn. He had not been born yet, but he knew the songs from before, when their kind had thrived in balance with the world around them.

  Look at us now, he thought. The few Taistelijan warriors who had survived the battle stood out among the nieddaš and the boaris. They were thankful to be alive, but they lived with the heavy burden of guilt. Indeed, it seemed that those who sought out healers, like himself, suffered less from an illness of the body and more from a sickness of the spirit. Increasingly, the old spent more time alone, listening to the Song of All, waiting for their time to end. They seemed to prefer the chorus of the wider world to the melancholy of their own immediate one. Yet, when called upon, they honored their duty as life bringers. They traveled to their Origins without complaint. Old and wise, they must have known that when their spirits left this world, new souls would likely not replace them.

  But what alarmed Kalek most was not the pervasive sadness among the old, but the changes wrought among the young. Although the youngest still ran about playing innocent games, the older ones left childhood behind for hard work.

  Wood for fires still needed to be chopped. Metal and leather still needed to be wrought. Animals still needed to be butchered. And fields still needed to be plowed. The survival of their kind depended on these tasks, which meant survival depended on the nieddaš, who were now the majority.

  The necessary new duties had made many of the older and more capable nieddaš sullen and silent. They exhibited a harshness that had not existed before the battle. Still, when the time came for these nieddaš to return to their Origins and give birth, they struggled, restless and fearful, because what had once been a rite of passage had become, to their minds, a death sentence.

  No one wanted to speak about what was happening, but none could ignore the fact that few nieddaš returned from birthing. Once, a nieddaš could expect to be a guide mother in the course of her life. Now she could only hope to be one. Kalek had seen the sidelong glances of those who still had no babe to love and nurture. And they all felt the palpable desperation as the songs of the guide mothers were sung less and less.

  Despite his calling as a healer, Kalek found it hard to offer counsel to those nieddaš who came to see him. In their sad faces, he saw Aillun, his beloved first heart-pledge, who had traveled to her Origin what felt like a lifetime ago. Believing she could save them both from sorrow, Aillun had not shared the truth of the quickening within her. At the time, Kalek had told himself his wounded heart justified his harsh last words. But really it was his injured pride that had made him growl like a trapped bear. Later, though, when Aillun failed to return from her Origin, he would learn what real heartache was. He would not be the one to send these innocent nieddaš to their death in the Outside.

  “You have pushed your food from one side of your bowl to the other many times, Kalek.”

  Startled by the voice, Kalek looked up.

  “Lighten your heart and be done with your meal,” Okta said.

  Kalek dropped the wooden spoon. He looked deep into the eyes of his mentor. A milky whiteness grew in them now, but the ancient healer’s gaze was still sharp and penetrating. He could not lie to his mentor, his friend.

  “What are we doing?” he asked, hopelessness flooding his question.

  Okta raised his unruly eyebrows. “We are surviving. As we always have.”

  Kalek’s despair turned his gut sour. “To what end, Okta? We are defeated.”

  Okta patted his apprentice’s hand. This was by now an old conversation between them.

  “Kalek, even in defeat, there can be life.”

  The young healer shook his head, his focus on the bowl in front of him. “We are all just waiting to die.”

  “It has always been so,” Okta said gently.

  Kalek’s head shot up. His pale, feverish eyes bore into Okta just as they had the day of the battle, when Kalek had found Irjan’s body. Nothing in the young healer’s training had prepared him to see his friend and lover broken and bloodied. It did not matter that Irjan was part Olmmoš and had once hunted their kind. He had fought and died like a true Jápmemeahttun warrior. Then, as now, Okta knew that Kalek’s giant frame could bear much, but anguish threatened to crush his soul.

  “Fine words meant to play with one’s thoughts,” Kalek said. “They are not an answer.”

  Okta nodded his head, allowing the reproach to stand.

  The old healer lifted his cup. He wished he could ease his apprentice’s pain. He wanted Kalek to regain his spirit, to see beyond the death of friends and comrades, and the death of those he had loved. Aillun first. Then Irjan. Okta drained his tea, then placed the cup down.

  “There are no words I can offer you, Kalek, that will be sufficient,” he said. He stood and gathered his bowl and cup. “I will return to my chambers and then go out to gather herbs.”

  The ancient healer did not wait for his apprentice to answer, and Kalek did not try to stop him.

  The knock upon the apothecary door stopped Okta at the garden’s threshold. He considered ignoring it, longing to be outside where the rhythm of life pulsed, unchanged and welcoming. But a healer could not ignore someone in need. He backtracked through the crowded room filled with pungent herbs and distilling tinctures. He opened the door, surprised to see the Noaidi.

  “Einár! This is unexpected. Are you feeling unwell?”

  The Elder shook his head. “May I enter? I wish to speak with you.”

  The formality of the Elder’s request placed Okta on guard. While the two shared a friendship that spanned ages, Einár was the head of the Council of Elders and the gods’ Oracle. For the last several seasons of snow they had not agreed on much, but in the vast span of their lifetimes, this was but a small matter.

  “I have not seen much of you since our return,” Okta said, standing back to allow the Elder’s hunched frame to enter the apothecary. When did Einár become so thin? So frail? he wondered.

  “My time now is mostly spent with the gods,” Einár said with a matter-of-factness that belied the onus of being the Noaidi. “I try to understand their wishes, and our future.”

  Okta hesitated. “And . . . what do they say?”

  Einár clasped his hands in front of him. The sleeves of his pale-green linen robe fell down across his gnarled knuckles. “They say many things, but I am not here to speak of the gods. I am here to speak to you of Dárja.”

  Okta winced. The name cut him like a knife. His hand rose to his chest where the weight of responsibility rested heavy and immutable.

  He was to blame for what had come to pass, at least in part. He had been angry and callous when he had last spoken to Dárja. He had told her she would always be a nieddaš. That she would never be a mother. Never be an almai. Never be a warrior. He had been blunt and brutal, and he had immediately regretted it.

  Despite all his training as a healer, Okta had
not understood what it meant to live a singular life. His had been a Jápmemeahttun life. He had been a nieddaš. He had given birth. He had handed his child to her guide mother, then embraced his life as an almai. When asked, he had become a warrior. He had experienced it all, as his kind was meant to. But Dárja was unique, and Okta had failed her. They had all failed her.

  “I have heard her song,” Einár said.

  The calm pronouncement set Okta back on his heels. He braced himself on the edge of his scarred work table. Disbelief clouded his thoughts, but his heart pounded.

  Dárja had disappeared the day the Taistelijan had marched to battle. He did not doubt she had wanted to prove herself worthy to be a warrior. To prove him wrong. And he was wrong. He was wrong to keep his doubts about her future to himself for as long as he had. He could have helped her. They all could have helped her. But the truth remained hidden for too long, too painful to relive.

  Okta met the Elder’s gaze. “She is alive, then?”

  “Yes. I have heard her song.”

  Okta’s elation made him eager to tell Kalek. The news would give the young almai the encouragement he needed. It would light the way back from the darkness that had consumed him.

  Einár raised a hand to caution Okta. “There is more. I have also heard the song of Irjan’s son.”

  Whatever hope had welled within in the ancient healer was dashed. “Marnej,” he muttered, remembering Irjan’s son, whose very existence had threatened what little peace remained to their kind. Silently, he blamed the boy, So much life lost. So many lives changed. And Marnej at the root of it all.

  “I do not know what this means,” the Elder continued, “but I leave you to make the choices you feel you must.” He paused, then added, “The way you have always done.”