A WORD FROM THE AUTHOR

 

In January of 2012, I independently published my first novel, In Dreams Book One the Road Unavoidable. Which was not only a mouthful to say, but also topped off at over 450 pages. To say sales were at minimum would be a laugh. But if I was in it for the money I would have become a banker, but instead I was born a writer. After a health scare, I decided that it was time to tell the stories my way. See, I had cut The Road Unavoidable in half to make a personal deadline, and something was lost. 

 

Never rush it; I learned this lesson the hard way.

 

With Traditional publishing there are deadlines, and pressures to produce on a schedule, but I turned that route down because I would not cut my work more. My pride and my compulsion has driven me to write, and now what was one book is three, and if you stick with Amara, and me, I promise you will find a world of wonder, grace, love, loss, vengeance and humility. A world unlike our own, but still very much the same. Man will do as he does until he breaths no more. Come walk the Roads of In Dreams.

 

S. I. Hayes

 

 

Some are born to happiness, others to sorrow. Some are affected by circumstance, while others rise above it. Yet out of the darkest beginnings a flame can begin, which can burn far brighter than any sun. ~S.I.Hayes~

 

CHAPTER ONE

 

 

      The Isle De’ Corlen, is small, and cut off from the rest of the continents, the only way to approach is by boat or air, and neither are permitted without invitation. Its claims to fame were not its white sandy beach, or lustrous blue rivers, but a high cost commodity. The Isle is home to a venomous insect called Hymenopteria, which expel froth while tending to their rocky hives. This is collected and used to create Trialade. A naturally sweet additive, sold the world over. The Isle being the only place in which these insects thrive, has made them into a creature of faith. The people see them as a source of divine intervention, and as their High Priestess is in complete control of them, she too is venerated. 

This is a place where if it walks like a duck and quacks like one, it’s probably a chicken, here nothing is taken at face value and every action hangs upon the will of the High Priestess Rosaline Decon. Her word is law and to break any of her laws was to be punished in a most cruelly unfair fashion. Especially if you were unfortunate enough to have been born male, or worse her child. 

 

       Rosaline, like the rest of the Isle was a superstitious woman. When she was young and still learning to become a High Priestess she stumbled upon an obscure bit of parchment. The parchment told of the coming of the Divine Goddess. That she would be born of man and woman, the Raven would be her symbol and her hair would shine like the deepest night. Darkness would follow the child and undo any who would claim her as their own. Rosaline had hidden this from her tutors and hoped that she would not live to see the day that would be the Isle’s undoing. Until the Ravens flocked she had all but forgotten about it. 

A daughter was born to Rosaline Decon, on the night of the fullest and largest moon the Isle had witnessed in more than twenty years. The labor was hard, and long, but that did not bother Rosaline, what kept her screaming was the commotion. Outside, the sky was blackened by the feathers of ravens as they swooped amongst the Hymenopteria. Their blue blood rained down, soaking the dirt roads. The birds numbers were uncountable, and no one could stop them. The huntsmen and the guards tried in vain, but for every raven they took down with their bows, three more would fill in its place.

      Then, as Rosaline pushed for the final time, and the child let out her first wail, it stopped. The birds settled into the trees and on the eaves of the Stone shingled building.

      “Give me my daughter.” She demanded, but one look at the child and Rosaline pushed her away, for on her delicate little head was a patch of raven’s blue-black hair. She mumbled that it was an omen, that the child would never be a Decon.

      Although her body was weakened by the birth, she pulled herself out of bed and withdrew from the room, leaving the child in the arms of her midwife, Beatrice. With a hardened face, the woman shoved the baby into the open arms of its father Jeremiah, so she might chase the High Priestess.

      The baby wailed, but as Jeremiah rocked, she quieted. “There, there, your muma’s just upset. Its okay, Amara, I’m your Dad, and I’ll always keep you safe”

      “Make that we, and if she’ll not be a Decon, give her your name, make her a Dagon.” The voice of an older gentleman broke into the room. When Jeremiah looked up, he saw his father-in-law, Nathan, with a smile across his face, with him was Amaranth, Rosaline’s mother, Amara’s namesake.

 “Yes, you strange bird, we will be here for her, no matter what.” Amaranth promised.

 

 

      Amara was outwardly a very happy child, bright and eager in her studies, but her nights were filled with terrible dreams of fires, and a shadowy demon, that caused fits of screaming, which Rosaline left either her parents or Jeremiah to deal with. In fact, unless it was to scold her Rosaline rarely ever occupied the same room as Amara, who wanted nothing more than her love and approval. Keeping with their promise to protect Amara, as Rosaline’s patience with her was thin as skin upon milk, Nathan took to teaching Amara a rhyme to help keep the dreams at bay. 

     “Dreams of sorrow, dreams of pain, shall not linger in the light of day. Should darkness unfold in memories untold, nothing shall haunt a child bold.”

     This was the last gift she would receive from her beloved grandfather. For unfortunately, life has a way of breaking the most sacred of promises. By the time Amara was five, Nathan was gone. Having disappeared on a fishing voyage, just before she was to begin her studies as a Priestess Initiate. His demise sent his wife Amaranth into a despair from which she has never truly recovered. This left Jeremiah, as the only protector to a young girl who was often made to feel inferior, by the woman who was supposed to love her most of all. Rosaline never forgave her for bringing the Ravens, or for the color of her hair. Both, atrocities for which she blamed Jeremiah as well. She often clamored that had she known, that in his youthful days he too had the omen color, she would have never allowed their coupling. On several occasions, Jeremiah had to put himself in between Rosaline and Amara, simply because the woman would smack her just for being in the room. 

     For his kindness and his nature, Amara loved her father dearly. He was a large man, almost six feet four inches tall, just one of his hands could encase both of her own, but for all of his imposing, he was the gentlest man she knew. With him in her life, she could withstand the scowling of her mother, and the poisoned tongue of her teacher Beatrice.

He made her want to be the daughter Rosaline expected. Good, honest, loyal, and obedient. He told her tales of places far off, of cities underground, filled with neon lights, and mirrors that brought the sun’s light to the darkest of places. Places she vowed to see one day.  These stories made her happy; they were the only thing, which brought her solace. 

 

 

      Two weeks past Amara’s eighth birthday, she stood before the Elders of the Isle; it was time for her first test as a Priestess. Several months before she and Beatrice’s Daughter Carmine were made host to the Hymenopteria Queen’s larvae. A small incision had been made in their right forearm and the wriggling thing had been put into place. Both girls had been knocked out and awoke to find their right arm bound. It was a race for the growth and survival of the Leadership of the Isle. The Decon and Ward Families each vied for the position, and it seemed that Amara’s family would once again prevail, for when Carmine’s arm was opened, the larvae was dead. This meant that she was not to be host to the Queen, and would never have control of the hives. For once in Amara’s life Rosaline seemed proud. Beatrice however condemned her daughter to the life of a keeper of the hives. This meant that she would never marry, have no children, and would live out her days tending to the rock hive walls of the main house, where Amara’s family lived. 

Amara’s Queen had indeed survived, this test was a success. She now only needed to use the young Queen to call the swarm. If she could do this then her place as High Priestess could never be challenged again. 

In this, she failed... Miserably. 

 

 

      She stood with the Queen in her hands, humming as she had been taught by her tutors. The Queen darted from her hands, flitting this way and that, as it did so, the other Hymenopteria began to awaken from their long cold time slumber. The swarm rose, filling the sky. Amara stood frozen, her fear holding her and her voice at the gate of silence. She could not continue the hum or the chat that should have followed. Her fear was too great; the idea that this insect could kill her in moments overwhelmed her. The swarm came in a rush, down upon the masses of people. Pandemonium ensued. They ran. Ran into their homes, headed for the water, others high tailed it to the Inn on the hillside. Rosaline had no choice but to step in, she took Amara’s place in the center of the swarm, wrapping her arms protectively around Amara.

      “Jeremiah! Come take her, wrap her in your garb. Keep her from the queen! She will seek her out!” Amara’s mother’s voice was filled with demanding concern. Jeremiah did as he was told, staying low to the ground avoiding the insects’ stings.

      Within a few moments, Rosaline had stopped the swarm, her presence seemed to be all that was needed, when it was over and all was calm, three people were dead, including Carrola, Beatrice’s youngest child. 

To make matters worse, because Amara was unable to finish her final initiation, the task of calming them, there was no alternative, their appeasement could only be held firm with smoke and blood.

This was the isle’s way, so said Rosaline, according to her Priestess texts, which were conveniently translated by Beatrice. Stating that if ever the insects failed to calm in the presence of a High Priestess it was because the Divine Goddess wanted a libation. In the past this had been done regularly, to keep the flow of Trialade in check, but the last time was more than sixty years ago.

      A choice had to be made, either it was to be the blood of the initiate, or the blood of the father. Since Amara was an only child, and Jeremiah had forfeited his pervious life to become High Priest, he knew it was his duty to keep Amara safe. He would keep his promise to her, in the only way he could. He sacrificed himself, so that she would be spared. He never dreamed that Rosaline’s cruelty could go so far...

 

 

      As part of the ritual to appease the Divine, Jeremiah was beaten, first publically lashed by Rosaline and Beatrice, while Amara was forced to watch. When this was done, he was taken away by guards who all but crippled him. Once the pyre had been created, he was dragged to its base, lugged up the steps, and tied by guards, a few of whom were visibly in tears.

In the time of Nathan, and Jeremiah, the treatment of men, was a far fairer time. Before them, stories were told of atrocities as the one now witnessed happening on a far larger and more frequent scale. The entirety of the Isles people were gathered as the ritual played out. Amara was held tightly by Amaranth, and handed a torch, she was to be the one to light the fire. Adorned in white robes she was pushed forward, the torch in her hand, as Rosaline chanted. The words escaped Amara as she looked into her fathers bloodied face. She couldn’t do it, even as the man nodded, giving her permission. Amara collapsed, hoping that this would end it, but she was dragged away screaming for her father, as Rosaline, glared at her, then took up the torch, and finished it. The kindness of Amara’s world ended in that instant.