Brinlin Isle
Annals of the Brinlocks: Book I
A Story of Bydaira
Robin Stephen
text copyright © 2016 by Robin Stephen Deutschendorf
robinstephen.com
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E-BOOK ISBN: 978-1-946238-00-9
Cover design by Robin Deutschendorf
Brown Wing Press
Iowa City, IA
brownwingpress.com
First Brown Wing Press Edition
This little series is dedicated to the wonderful teachers I had in 3rd, 4th, 5th, and 6th grade, who went out of their way to show an interest in my youthful scribblings. It’s impossible to overstate the vast impact so much early support and valuable feedback had on my desire to keep writing, and get better at it.
Books by Robin Stephen
Chronicles of the Tessilari
Tessili Academy
Tessili Rogue
Tessili Revenge
Annals of the Brinlocks
Brinlin Isle
Brinlin Forest
Brinlin Cove
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Table of Contents
Maps
Prelude
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
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Books by Robin Stephen
Maps
Prelude
The fog was alive and thrumming with dark energy. As lightning snaked and danced in the sky overhead, the fog coiled and looped like the flight path of a maddened tessila.
Marim knelt on the narrow path that led from Lan Dinas down to the shores of the warmlake, staring ahead into the gray air. She could taste the fog—its rusty tang—but couldn’t see more than a few feet in any direction. It was like being utterly alone on her own private, half-made planet.
She could feel the creeping coolness as her skirts soaked up the pooling dew and mud. She blinked and rubbed her eyes, but it didn’t help. The fog muffled everything. She blinked again, swaying.
Marim was tired, and growing cold. The wind blowing ahead of the storm traced probing fingers up the nape of her neck. She shivered, her nostrils full of the scent of damp, cool earth.
Kix was upset. She could feel him flying above her, wheeling and circling in aimless loops. It was often this way for her tessila. Strong emotion overwhelmed him, made him directionless and incapable of focusing. Confused by her exhaustion, he flung himself about in the empty sky in an orgy of purposeless activity.
Marim should get up. It was strange of her to be kneeling in the path like this as the storm drew near. Nothing was finished yet. Her help might be needed. Time was running out.
Strangely, though, Marim could not get up. Her limbs felt heavy, as if they’d been poured full of wet sand. Even her heartbeat felt sluggish, as if her blood had grown thick as oil. But next to the slowness, a sense of urgency beat through her like the throbbing rumble of a distant drum.
She must get up.
Marim did not move. It felt like she’d been kneeling on this damp path most of her life. She could hear nothing but the strange hiss of the fog, see nothing but the roiling gray mists. She was having trouble remembering how she’d come to be in this place. Not just on the path, but in this fog-filled world. Her memory was as fuzzy as the blank air.
“Lan Dinas. Cynnes Tarth.” She spoke the words aloud, startling herself. The names, she felt, should hold some significance. As it was, they existed like she did – cut off from everything that might give them meaning.
Kix wheeled ever higher in the thick air. Marim drooped. She didn’t have to stay sitting, she realized. She could lie down and let her head nestle into the soft grass. She could uncurl her legs and stretch out and rest. She would. In a moment, she would.
She heard the thump of a boot on grass. She looked up to see a shape looming over her. She caught the scent of hair oil and boot leather, saw a pinprick of gleaming gold against a neck scarf.
A thought leapt into her head. He’s come back. He’s come back, and he’s going to kill me. The certainty uncoiled from the secret place in her heart where the fear and anger had ridden since that terrible day, long ago, when she’d run into the forest, chased by the sound of screams.
She must get up.
She had run away that time. She needed to do it again. Then, she’d been hungry and weak and terrified. Now, there was something wrong in her mind. She was confused, not remembering properly, and Kix was so high up there, flying on the looping currents of wind she could not see.
Marim didn’t move. The man loomed. Hands closed around her throat. Tight, rough hands that squeezed with precise, deliberate pressure. She had the absurd thought that at least, with his hands around her throat, he would not be able to see her scars.
The world, already gray, began to go dark around the edges.