Specifically, the Fifth Island where Derrick begins the ritual Ceremony. Every five years the upcoming adults must engage in this process, where enemies are identified and unbreakable alliances formed. Watching over it all: the Skylar Temple.
Since Derrick is identified as the Promised One, resulting in expectations of this Ceremony to restructure the Septum, he does not walk this path alone. At his side, as he has been the entirety of their lives, is Jago.
Well…not always, now that you mention it….
I present to you Catching Her Balance, Book One of the Skylar series.
Act One, “Things Fall Apart” is now available on both Amazon and Smashwords for $0.99.
Please enjoy this excerpt:
Against a sky lightened by dawn’s warm colors rises an ancient stone citadel. Its towers clawed at the departing darkness like arthritic fingers worrying a cloth. Sea birds swarm and shriek nearby, bearing witness to the restless waves’ endless struggle between the building’s foundation and an incoming, inevitable change.
Within, someone at the edge of adulthood races up a long staircase. Leather boots slap across the worn stone while the robe’s fabric snaps. Gazes of the bored sentries standing at wooden doors follow the figure’s rushed journey upward. At the top, the runner pauses to catch his breath and scan the surroundings.
Lush, thick tapestries drape the walls; art objects shimmer atop their pedestals, tickled by torchlight; armed sentries frame an open portal cut into the north wall, which allows a view beyond the citadel’s walls. Another figure, one wearing the armor of a Skylar war master, paces the rocks outside.
Derrick hurries toward Jago.
The guards snap their pikes together and block his path.
He pushes at the blocking weapons. “What are you doing?”
“Pardon, a’Lar, but you are forbidden,” says the guard on the left.
“Forbidden? The White Island has been breached. My family’s territory is under attack.” He again shoves at the weapons. “Step aside!”
“The a’Lar must not be risked.” Left Guard says, refusing to yield.
Derrick struggles against the barrier of weapons, which results in one flailing hand making contact with a translucent barrier. A flash of blinding magic lights the area but the barrier does not fall. He realizes, uncomfortably, that magical protections have been put in place to prevent his passage.
Frustrated, he resigns himself to watching his lifelong friend do what he cannot.
And Jago isn’t happy.
The constant wind whips across the outside area, cleaning the rock and tugging at the red rope around his waist. He faces a trio of magi standing near the portal, their hands shoved inside the bell-like sleeves of their robes of green and brown.
His angry voice cracks across the early morning stillness. “Whadda you mean ‘no’? The island is Vittalar land.”
“The Prophecy rises,” says one cadaver-thin mage.
Jago gives a rude, dismissive gesture. “Then Derrick should be hip deep in this shit, no?”
“Skylar defends Vittalar. Always.” This is the shorter of the two.
Beyond, the bridled head of a Skylar war hawk rises into view as it searches for her usual rider. A hard, impatient peck slices away a sliver of stone from the platform. Jago twists away and faces the restless Regent. He floats a whistle across the area, asking her for patient obedience. The response is a rising three-note chirp.
When Jago turns back around there are now four magi.
The newcomer standing in front of Jago is Skylar’s Grandmaster.
“Enough,” says he. “Your magic has pierced the wards those many times you two went skylarking over the island. There is no need for the a’Lar’s presence.”
Jago knows better than to address that subject.
The Grandmaster makes a sweeping gesture. “The White Island is under assault and decades of Vittalar authority requires that area to be untouched. Your magic is the key. You’re needed aloft. Fly, Jago. Fly.”
Obedient to the directive, Jago sprints away. He leaps from the rock ledge and onto the bird. There, he yanks free the bottom edge of his rope belt from his waist and, with a quick twist, loops it around the saddle’s horn. Magic flares, securing him in place.
Regent makes a raspy shriek and spreads her wings, disturbing the crowd below.
Jago takes up the guiding leathers. “Regent, my beauty. Up! Up!”
Grooms crouch against the sweep of air brought by beating wings as the war hawk takes flight. The citadel’s courtyard drops away as the bird and rider rise into the brightening sky. Higher, higher, higher…until the spires of the tall temple are but thin shadows upon the ground.
Ahead, a teleportation portal spins into existence.
Jago flips the reins and directs the bird. Regent pierces the portal like an arrow launched toward a bullseye. Below and inside the citadel, Derrick watches the portal swirl close on the heels of the two.
Tasting defeat, he leaves the area and travels deeper into the temple’s halls to eventually join Skylar’s Grandmaster in the viewing room. There he sees a quartet of magi who’ve formed a ring around a large crystal orb bathed in the dawn’s golden glow. Or perhaps it radiated the glow. Either way, golden light bathes the watchers.
Another stands near but not part of the circle, one draped in rich, lush fabric that’s not of the temple. Clearly, a lord from somewhere which is not the norm for their culture. This is Falcon, Lord of Hawhurst who gifts the Temple with the majestic war hawks.
Derrick is spotted and the Grandmaster nods a greeting. “Welcome a’Lar.”
Within the orb a picture forms. It’s Jago atop Regent, aggressively swooping through the air near where ships have been anchored close to shore.
Derrick wants answers not greetings. “Why was I—is that the White Island?”
“The wards signaled a breach. Immediate action was required. Jago can slide past the wards, as you both know.”
Derrick avoids the latter part of the comment. “Why was I forbidden to ride a bird?”
“You cannot be risked.”
“Then why am I always here?”
Derrick’s attention if pulled the the viewing orb where Jago and Regent can be seen looping through the sky. Surprisingly, there’s an aggressive response from below which isn’t the norm. Jago’s hands are wrapped in the blue fire of his magic and he’s lobbing balls of magic fire at the attacking ships.
The Grandmaster leans closer, peering intently at the scene.
“I don’t identify that sail emblem,” he mutters, almost to himself, “but I do recognize the craft. They’re from a Septum shipyard.”
Astonishing! “Who would dare? That’s my family’s lands.”
Suddenly shoreline rocks animate and form into knee-high, four-legged creatures…who surge toward people exiting tender boats that had come ashore. An angry wave of aggression that falls upon the sailors who’ve crossed the sands…who die beneath the swarm
Jago’s position aloft changes and his magic leaps from his hands to the shore, laying out a protective sheet of power between the attacking hoard and the sailors. He tosses balls of magic fire at the tender boats which had come ashore.
Not at the people, no, but at the sand, driving the people back toward the ocean.
Foul green magic is launched from one of the anchored boats and wraps Jago and his bird. Regent twists and her beak opens in a silent scream. Lord Hawkhurst hisses his displeasure. Skylar magic reacts and recalls Jago back to the citadel with an opened teleportation disk and the two sucked into it with a thunderbolt of light.
The viewing orb darkens.
“Look away a’Lar,” the Grandmaster says….
Available now at: AMAZON.COM and Smashwords.com for only $0.99
B. Thatcher 