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Starlit Realms: A Fantasy Anthology
Starlit Realms: A Fantasy Anthology
Starlit Realms: A Fantasy Anthology
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Starlit Realms: A Fantasy Anthology

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Ten unforgettable stories of mystery and adventure from ten fantasy writers are woven together by the great Storyteller's own peculiar magic.

The mysterious Logunder Library houses no ordinary books, but those created from trees from the Enchanted Forest in a bid to save itself.

A young princess must choose a husband from four unlikely and undesirable suitors. 

A girl's father goes off to battle dragons in an alternate war and she undergoes dangers to find him.

A shape-shifting queen risks her life for a family condemned by age-old prejudice.

One young slave girl risks her life for the sake of reading sacred texts. 

The final day of one of the waterfolk is celebrated with songs and music as she wanders back into the sea.

A magic boot takes a young couple for the ride of their lives.

A poor girl deceives the royal family to snag a husband, but it is not as easy as she thinks.

A biological lab covers up the truth about its research and sends two science students into danger.

On the summer solstice at Willow Woods Peak, animals may speak and a cat enlists the help of a human to unravel a secret.

LanguageEnglish
Release dateMay 17, 2022
ISBN9798201774790
Starlit Realms: A Fantasy Anthology

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    Book preview

    Starlit Realms - Elizabeth Klein

    Chapter 1

    The Storyteller

    by

    Elizabeth Klein


    T ell us a tale, old man, called one of the strangers hunched over the nearest table.

    Why sit there like stone? We want to hear one of your stories, bellowed one of his two companions, a huge bear of a man dressed in furs and leathers. His tankard thunked on the table as he slammed it down. He wiped his wet mouth and matted beard with his sleeve.

    Shards of bright light flashed within the midnight blue eyes of the lone figure who sat next to the wall of the inn. He was far enough away from the odours of sweat and horse, mingled with stale wine and the thick pall of tallow and pipe smoke that hung in the air. But not far enough, it seemed, from being identified as a wandering Storyteller.

    Urgency and annoyance mingled together an accent in the men’s voices which he’d never heard in the highlands before, nor along the coast, nor amongst the people who dwelled on the plains. It was a guttural-sounding thing, made up of harsh sounds uttered from harsh mouths that awoke a drumming in his chest.

    Assassins perhaps? He’d been followed before that day, so it could be possible.

    All right, he said in the lilting brogue of the highlander folk and lifted the Storyteller’s shawl up off his slender shoulders and over his snowy hair and folded it on the table before him. His piercing gaze fixed the man who had called for the tale before he cleared his throat.

    Let me tell you a story about a sunlit kingdom in a far-away land. His words capered through the hazy room, heard by all who bothered to turn their heads and look as they vibrated their unseen energy in the close air.

    Yet the Storyteller’s voice was soft as treacle; its sound drizzled the listeners’ ears as they slouched over their tankards of ale and watched him—those who had lingered there at the inn that night while a storm out of the west lashed the window casements and the wind puffed its cold breath through gaps in the wall at the flickering candles.

    "Once there lived a great king who ruled an even greater kingdom, he said. One day, he rallied together his bravest warriors to seek out a magical talisman which, once found, they were to return it to his realm, whereupon he would hide it away in the deepest, darkest vaults of his keep. He paused with a secretive smile and a glint in his pale eyes. But I apologise, dear listeners, as my tale has wandered far afield and a journey is yet to unfold. I leave you with the golden thread of a beginning and the leave-taking of his warriors one cold, winter’s morning in a courtyard of stone…"

    The King watched his brothers-in-arms ride through the tall castle gates, his heart weighed down with forebodings and sorrow. They were his best, his finest, departing on a fool’s errand to seek a talisman lost long ago in the mists of time: the Golden Rose of Shianna. Some said it didn’t exist—was but a rumour in folklore—while others vowed they had glimpsed it long ago within the charmed Mountains of Bromtague and spoke of its magical properties. Possessed with power to heal any malady mankind possessed, even preserve one’s life against death itself. So, with his ailing queen bedridden these many months, he yearned for it with all his heart and soul.

    According to the prophecy of his soothsayer, Ebras, most of the warriors would perish save one or two who might survive the rigours of the quest itself, let alone the perils they would endure that even he, the King, could not foresee. But of those things, he kept silent.

    Besides that, Ebras warned, a curse lies upon the rose that many say corrupts the hearts of even the most upright, tempting them to possess it at all costs.

    But perhaps Jair, the king’s most trusted, might know a thing or three of the wilderness that lay beyond his realm, those perilous places where sporadic bands of Saxon bandits and cutthroats roamed unchecked.

    He bowed his head in a silent entreaty. May they avoid all such danger and return safely to Caelogana before too many winter snows.

    The King shivered as the wind chased flying grit through the courtyard. He’d heard spurious tales about those lands, of the mysterious priesthood of Druids who studied the stars and plant lore, and of huge wyrms that terrorised towns and villages and spat flames. Perils abounded beyond the borders of his kingdom which was now full of grief and sorrow. Many years might pass and the grey hairs of old age might cover his brow and form deep furrows on his face before word reached his ears of his warriors’ success or failure. Long, duty-bound years would pass, and hardships would dampen the bonds of present-day friendships.

    Ebras had shared as much with him before the soothsayer had vanished.

    One part of him longed to leave with his men and partake in their adventures; another recalled those waiting duties that required the King’s attention. And, of course, there was Linnet, the one whom he adored and loved, who possessed his heart to the end of days and who ailed in her bedchamber. How could he abandon her for long years?

    He sighed and turned. At the high window of an alcove, his golden-haired wife stood watching him, her grey-haired nurse standing behind her.

    With long strides, the King moved toward the castle doors. He mounted two steps at a time until he was on the topmost landing where she stood waiting, dressed in her bedclothes. His pecan brown eyes caressed her pale, beautiful face and he sat with her in a shaft of bright sunlight and spoke his endearments…

    Chapter 2

    Logunder Library

    by

    Clarice Noel


    Daphne sat on her trunk staring at the cryptic message in her hand. Come home fast. The postmark said, Logunder Lodge, Encantor, but it didn't sound at all like a message her Grandfather would write. Rain spattered on her hat and trickled down the back of her neck.

    For that matter, where was Grandfather? He had never forgotten to pick her up before—except that one time. Surely he was not trapped inside another book. The last one had kept him busy the entire week of her visit.

    She had finished her schooling and was a fully stamped and ribboned Scribe now. Those Top Scribes had been sticklers for perfection. Despite that, she had done it. It was a thing of pride even to have finished. She had to admit, at the end she had kept going only to show the Top Scribes they weren't the only ones who knew how to wield a quill.

    If there was another series of books to be copied into the Logunder Library, she could help this time. Grandfather had done it in the past, but his methods were antiquated and tragically slow.

    Daphne told herself, Grandpa will come soon, as she tried to brush ash from the hem of her travel skirt. At least he'll come as soon as he finishes the chapter.

    The town of Encantor lay between the inhospitable Trollop Mountains and what had been the Enchanted Forest before the fire. Daphne had no idea why people still lived in this charred place that smelled of wet soot. It had been a full fifty-one years ago, but somehow the burnt forest still managed to throw ash in their faces on windy days. Enchanted Forests did not know when to give up. She had been happy to breathe clean air when she had left for school four years ago. She had even learned to enjoy windy days. Now, after Grandfather's message, she was back here.

    Her eyes fell again to the damp scrap of paper in her hand. It certainly did not sound like the grandfather she knew, who was master of the elegant phrase. It appeared that Grandfather's prose was falling apart in his old age. She watched the ink run on the sodden letter and tossed it toward the waste bin. If she had to sit in this weather much longer she was certain she would be as limp and inelegant as that letter.

    Squinting through the rain, she was warmed by the sight of Grandfather's coach sloshing through the puddles toward her. Good ol' Grandfather. He might be late, but he never failed to show up.

    Daphne stepped toward the coach with her best smile.

    On the driver's seat, she recognized the slouched form of the groundsman of Logunder Lodge. He looked just as soaked as she did, but minus the smile. With a reddened hand, he waved to her, You Duffee Logunder? Get in. Ah, you got a trunk. Then, cursing his knees the entire way, he climbed down.

    Of course, Daphne had seen him about Logunder Lodge and knew he kept the building and garden operating like clockwork, but that was all she knew. To young Daphne, he had been such a formidable personage that she had always done her best to stay out of his way.

    At least there was one benefit to the rain. This was the cleanest she had ever seen him.

    Now, as an educated young lady with, hopefully, all her manners intact, she smiled, Thank you. John, isn't it? I didn't know how long I'd be here, so I packed everything I could manage. She winced as John attempted to lift her trunk. I hope it's not too heavy for you.

    Oh, no. John huffed. Don't you fret yer bonnet on my account. 'Ere to fetch and carry, I am. Another wincing grunt and he had the trunk off the ground.

    Turning away from this heroic endeavour, Daphne opened the carriage door and looked inside. Grandpa?

    To her surprise, the carriage was empty. Her gaze passed over faded curtains, threadbare cushions, but no Grandfather.

    She frowned, John. Where's my grandfather?

    John squinted through the rain as he secured her trunk behind the coach. That's the question, it is. I assume y'got my letter since yer ‘ere. Told you there was a problem. John shuffled to the front of the coach and cursed his way back up into the driver's seat. He looked down, Problem is, Mr. Logunder is missing. I'm right glad you made it down, Duffee. Place ain't right without a Logunder in it.

    Daphne had no clue what this ill-kempt man was talking about. What do you mean? Missing? Missing how?

    John did not answer. Instead, he glowered at the grey sky above. It continued to dump buckets of water on the groundsman who seemed to be more ground than man.

    Then he nodded back to the coach, Get yerself in. This soak ain't makin' the road no better. Didn' bring this wheeled beast down just fer show neither. Get in! That present on the seat is from Mr. Logunder.

    Present? Daphne did not linger on the carriage step longer than necessary. Attempting to shake the rain off her cloak, she climbed inside.

    She heard John's, Gi' up! before she had settled and the lurch landed her on the seat with an undignified thump. As she straightened her skirts, Daphne's attention was caught by something on the floor. Near her muddy boots lay a picturesque wooden book. All Grandfather's books had intricately carved wooden covers.

    Oh! It's beautiful! she breathed and bent to pick up the thick book.

    On the cover, flecks of black followed the wood grain through a carved image of Logunder Lodge. Daphne's finger traced the arched library windows. The longer she looked at the carving the more details she saw. There was the tree behind the kitchen well that she had fallen out of as a girl, and there was the sorry treehouse her grandfather had built for her by the garden. If she squinted, she thought she could see through the library windows to Grandfather's reading chair.

    She smiled, There he is. I think I can see him. Grandfather could always be found in the library with his books. What did he copy into this one? She opened the intricate cover of the volume in her lap.

    The smile disappeared. Blank? She closed and opened the book a few more times, trying to convince herself that the pages were truly empty.

    Why would he give me a blank book? She could not even ask Grandfather about it since he was missing. Perhaps he had not had the chance to write anything in it before he disappeared. She heard John cursing the nag as it stumbled up the hill. Had he really said Grandfather was missing? Maybe she had misunderstood. Why hadn't he brought up the Constable to look for him? Maybe he did and the Constable couldn't find him either.

    And why had John written to her?

    Up the hill and through the dripping trees, the carriage crawled until it finally stopped in front of Logunder Lodge. Daphne gazed out at the ivy-covered facade. Had the house always felt so lonely, or was it just that she was now used to the bustle of the city? Nestled among ancient trees that barely made way for the lodge and its outbuildings, it seemed closed and guarded.

    To be sure, besides herself and her parents, Daphne could not remember anyone ever visiting the place. Not that there was anywhere for guests to sleep even if they had. The biggest room was the library with its high roof and arched windows. To the right of the library block, the kitchen, storage and bedrooms seemed to have been added as an afterthought, as if the ancient Logunders realised they needed more than the written word to survive.

    John cursed his knees down the ladder and opened the door for her.

    'Ere we are, Duffee. I'll get yer trunk I guess.

    Thank you and please call me Ms. Daphne.

    Wassat?

    Daphne. Not Duffee. Ms. Daphne, if you please.

    'S what I said. Duffee.

    No. No, it's—

    Oh... His mouth and eyes became round as a dim realisation of his error dawned on him. "Oh! So sorry. You're a posh lady down from the city now. My apology to you and whatnot. Shoulda said Miss Duffee."

    Daphne gave up. It would not kill her to be called Duffee, and it would certainly be easier than trying to make this fellow understand. She gave a grudging, Thanks, and shielding the book in her cloak, hurried through the rain into the house.

    John followed with her trunk and dropped it barely a foot inside the door.

    I'd like to ask you a few questions about my grandfather, if I may, she said as she hung up her cloak.

    Ask away. I know'd Mr. Logunder since the Troll War. Longer than you've had a spitter ta spit with.

    Ah...all right. When did you see him last? Where have you already looked? What did the Constable find?

    Ain't called no Constable.

    What? Why? Go get one!

    John waved down the hall at the shadowy double doors, I know they'd look in that lib'ry and that be no place for no human. Ain't nobody goin' in there. Not me nor not any Constable. Caint be done.

    What? What's so horrible about a library? Books won't hurt anyone. Daphne stormed into the hall. Still holding Grandfather's gift and ignoring John's shout, she threw open the library doors.

    Daphne gasped when her impulsive step almost crushed a slim volume of Woodworker's Companion. Strewn across the floor were all the wood-covered books. There were novels and travelogues, horrors and romances and who knew what else was spread across the hardwood floor.

    Shaking her head in disbelief, she bent down to pick up the Woodworker's Companion, Who did this? Was there a fight? Daphne tried to imagine it. Had all the books been ripped from the shelves and used as projectiles? That didn't seem likely since the books were lying neatly beside each other.

    Then, those books began to move. A cacophonous noise filled the room as with a great scraping and clattering, the books stood upright. Daphne's shock turned to fear when that impossibly moving body of literature started towards her.

    Duffee! Come on! Out 'ere! John was still at the door, feet firmly and precisely outside the library threshold.

    She turned, dodging several Historical Fictions that flew at her as she tried to reach the door. It wasn't far. Just a few feet! Hope drew in its breath; she would make it! Then both Daphne and her hope face-planted as the five Enchanted Forest Chronicles tripped her.

    Now on the floor, down on their level, she twisted. Varnished wood waddled toward her from all directions. Carved titles swarmed her vision: Whimsie's Walrog, Sassy Symptoms of Servitude, How to Build a Castle in Less Than Fifty Years.

    The hard covers battered and scraped her arms as she still clung to Grandfather's gift. There was so much movement about her that Daphne did not feel the book in her arms begin to shift.

    Don't go nowhere! bellowed John. I'll get me axe!

    The pounding of his boots was barely heard through the thumps and thuds about her head.

    It seemed like every book wanted her to look at it, to hold it and open it. Every book wanted her attention and they were using every trick available in hard-backed literature to get it. Daphne curled her body around Grandfather's book as if to guard it. Right now, she despised every word she had ever read.

    Then Grandfather's book seemed to come to life. Slipping from her grasp, it stood and faced the rushing mass of books as if it had a life of its own.

    Daphne sensed a pause in the attack. She peeked, one eye open, assessing this new development.

    Every book in the library stood erect.

    Then Grandfather's gift launched itself against the wall of wooden covers. It butted and snapped. A few novels sprang forward aggressively, but were soon demolished. Swinging its covers with precision, Grandfather's book soon cleared a circle around Daphne.

    Another pause.

    Facing the undamaged volumes, her grandfather's book snapped its covers shut and stood between Daphne and the living literature in a menacing way.

    With a nonchalant air, the other books began to shuffle away, as if saying, This was just a misunderstanding; an accident really. There wasn't anything about this human that interested us. Absolutely not.

    Daphne convinced her complaining body to uncurl. Sitting up, she looked down at her curious defender—a mere book. It turned to face her. She heard John's snort from the door, Better keep that 'un on ya, missy. Better than a guard dog it is. C'mon. Get out now 'fore they all come back.

    Hoping that this entire day was no more than a bizarre dream, Daphne stared at Grandfather's book. John. It's moving.

    All them papery beasts move! Get outta there!

    No. The carving on the front of the book is moving. It was Logunder Lodge before.

    Get up! Do I have ta come in there an' get ya?

    That was the last straw. If this was her dream, she should not have to deal with being ignored. If this was reality—well, Daphne decided she would not deal with being ignored in reality either. She hauled herself to her feet.

    John! She held the book up to the sweaty man's face. "Look at it! Even you can see that is not a house! What do you see!"

    John shifted, lowering his axe and adjusting his formless cap, Ah. Is nothin' but Mr. Logunder's desk, miss. Step back now. Yer—

    No. She pushed it closer, What else?

    You an' me, miss. I see you an' me lookin' at that chair, miss.

    Daphne drew a shaky breath and rubbed a tender spot on her forehead as she lowered the book. "John, today I have been mauled by books. Books, John! Hard covered books! This book stopped that—that mob from killing me. If it wants me to go to the desk, she fixed her eyes on his, I will go to the desk."

    Oh no, miss—

    Groundsman John!

    His mouth snapped shut.

    Daphne pointed to the carved cover, You are in the picture too. Get in here. Leave the axe.

    The sound of John's grumbling followed her to the inner wall of the library. She thought she heard him mutter about repairing gutters and putting his mutton pie in the oven.

    Grandfather's heavy desk stood in front of an empty wall with a grim-faced statue on either side. It was an immaculate desk, heavily constructed. The dark varnish matched the bookshelves. As Daphne circled it, she saw her face reflected in the top. She stepped behind and lowered herself onto the cushioned leather chair.

    Immediately, the chair tipped backwards, carrying Daphne across the floor to where a section of the wall rose, revealing a track leading downward into darkness. Too late, John leapt forward to catch her as Daphne and the chair disappeared from sight. Nothing more than a gasp escaped her before the wall slid closed again.

    As terrifying as it was, it was only a brief ride before the chair levelled, slowed and then stopped. Daphne sat still, collecting herself. The air felt close. She opened her eyes into—

    Blackness.

    Thick, inky blackness.

    Her eyes were useless so her mind resorted to other senses to gain information. It was so quiet. No rustling bumps of those nutty

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