This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Dedication
I dedicate this book to a group of amazing people. To my sister, Sabrina Williams who patiently reads every new page as I write it. To Laura Wright Laroche who diligently produces the cover art for my books. To Melissa Wright for patiently putting up with incessant emails and long conversations about writing only the two of us could have. To Elise Marion, a beta reader/friend/traveling buddy who gives criticism when needed and is willing to beta read at the drop of a hat. To my amazing fans, and to the amazing Young Adult and Teen Readers group run by Derinda Love and Jodie O'Brien for the never ending support and friendship they give to every writer they know. And to the fb friends who shower me with encouragement and love. Amy McCool, Bree Foster-High, Shanna Roberson, Nanette Del Val Bradford, Katherine Pegg Eccleston, Cara Crabtree, and Carole Ronneberg, you have no idea what it means to me. And finally, I give a very, very special thank you to my editor on this project, Melissa M. Ringsted, for everything she has done to make this book the best that it can be. And to Audrey Welch, best friend extraordinaire, who listened to me tell her a story about a scribe and then threatened to throttle me if I didn't write it. Her violence is extremely appreciated. This book is for you. And last, but never, least, I dedicate this book to my children who are forever begging me to tell them fairytales.
Prologue
Scratch, scratch, scratch . . .
For a moment there was nothing except the sound of a quill pen running across rough parchment. A calloused, wrinkled hand gripped the edge of a crude, stone surface turned into a table. It was rudimentary at best, but it suited its purpose.
The cavern was dark with the exception of a few lit candles sitting haphazardly around the cave, causing flickering shadows that looked like ghosts.
Suddenly there was a loud crash, followed by a small shower of rocks and dust, but the scribe did not look up. He did not flinch. His hand kept moving, tirelessly, persistently. The dragons above him were fighting for dominance. The old dragon king had died. In his place, there were three strong enough to rule, but only one of the three would survive. It was the custom. It did not affect the scribe. He had only one objective; The Kiarian Freesonalay: The Book of Truth. He scribbled.
In the year of the Dragon, a kingdom will be divided. Twins will be born to the sovereign. These male heirs will be greedy. They will seek power. They will war amongst themselves, and their kingdom will be split in two.
For one son, the years will not be kind. His kingdom within the forests will suffer. Trade will be sparse. Crops will falter. There will be famine and civil war. A dictator will rise from his heirs, all semblance of a monarchy erased. There will be persecution. The old magick will be condemned. All learning will be outlawed. Those born with power will be murdered.
For the other son, the years will be prosperous. His kingdom amidst the sea will bring him wealth and bring his people peace. Trade will flourish. The old magick will be esteemed.
A desert will form between the two nations. The kingdoms will be divided by barren, harsh land. But it will not stop the big war from coming. It will not stop a dictator from attempting to usurp power.
The Dragons will take to hiding in their mountains. The creatures of the forest will bide their time. For out of the ashes of devastation will arise a phoenix, an omen, a child born under the Harvest Moon. This child will be born of forbidden magick, born to bring two nations together.
To the prosperous kingdom, there will be born a son to the ruler. His magick will be borne of steel, strong. His life will be cursed with hardships. His power will make others greedy, murderous. He will be plagued with death.
The girl, the phoenix of peace, will bring . . .
The cave shook. The pen could no longer be held steady. Bigger rocks fell from the cavern's ceiling. There was no more time. A new dragon ruler would be crowned. The mountains quivered. The fight was mighty. The cavern did not hold. The scribe was not afraid. He had always known this would be his fate. He was a scribe. He was a prophet. In the end, he would die with his book. And when the fateful boulder fell, he did not cry out. His lifeless hand fell limp, his lax fingers tickled by bound parchment. The book would not die. Books never die.
The small cavern was no more. The scribe was dead. The only thing left among the stone was the book. The Kiarian Freesonalay: The Book of Truth.