The Iron Phoenix Read online

  Table of Contents

  Synopsis

  Acknowledgments

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  About the Author

  Books Available from Bold Strokes Books

  Synopsis

  Seventeen-year-old Nadya Gabori lives a life of secrets in the island city of Storm’s Quarry. By day, she is the dutiful Nomori daughter, but by night, she sprints across rooftops, testing her abilities of speed and strength, abilities no normal girl should have. And she keeps her growing feelings for her friend Kesali from her conservative family. If her secrets were discovered by her people, the price would be banishment.

  But when a murderer strikes again and again while a prophesied storm bears down on the city, Nadya disguises herself and uses her gifts to fight the chaos that threatens her home. When Kesali’s life is put in peril by the madness, Nadya will do anything to save her, even if it means risking all and revealing she is the one the city calls the Iron Phoenix.

  The Storm's Quarry Series

  The Iron Phoenix

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  eBooks from Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  http://www.boldstrokesbooks.com

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  The Iron Phoenix

  © 2016 By Rebecca Harwell. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-62639-745-3

  This Electronic Book is published by

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 249

  Valley Falls, New York 12185

  First Edition: May 2016

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Editor: Ruth Sternglantz

  Production Design: Susan Ramundo

  Cover Design By Jeanine Henning

  Acknowledgments

  I am blessed to have many wonderful people in my life without whom this book would be only an idea. Thank you to my parents, Jane and Mike, for your unending support. John, for your insightful feedback and excellent music recommendations. Mandy, for reading many, many rough drafts. Other Becky, for poems. All my wonderful Knox friends, for 2 a.m. milkshake runs and continued encouragement. The Creative Writing department at Knox College, and in particular Cyn, Monica, Robin, and Sherwood, for pushing my writing to new depths. And finally, the amazing team at Bold Strokes Books, for making this book a reality.

  Dedication

  For Amanda, who believed in Nadya’s story from the very beginning.

  Chapter One

  Night sank into Storm’s Quarry. With it came the eerie stillness that fed off the shivers of those traveling alone on cobblestoned streets. Elaborate manors of the citystate’s fourth tier loomed overhead, guarded by wrought-iron gates and gargoyles carved into roofs, gutters forcing rainwater out of their silently shrieking jaws. In the darkness, they looked like demons from another realm.

  Gedeon did not fear the dark.

  He leaned up against the wall, waiting. The night wasn’t cold, but he wore a full cloak as he watched the deserted road from the shadows. They were his kin; they were all he’d had for a long time now. Even the gas lamps that bordered the street, their pale light battling against the night, could not touch the shadows.

  Between breaths, Gedeon felt the power stir in his bones. Whispering. Coaxing him to draw upon it and bring the man who had shamed him to his knees. In time, he told it. Even he, who had little to fear from the Duke’s Guard, couldn’t be foolish about murdering one of Duke Isyanov’s favorite courtiers in the middle of the city’s wealthiest neighborhood.

  The clattering of hooves against stone broke the silence. Gedeon straightened as a lone carriage wound around the corner. It stopped before the ornate gate. One man jumped out of the driver’s seat and, with a hurried glance over his shoulder, opened the carriage door and helped a stooped figure down. Another figure, smartly dressed in the livery of a private guardsman, surveyed the area.

  Gedeon pulled farther back into the shadows. The guardsman opened the gate for the older man: Master Jurek, a bard and a courtier, beloved by the native Erevan people of the city. His silver hair gleamed as he moved slowly but surely along the curved walkway up to the double doors of his manor. His guardsman, one of the Nomori people by his dark skin and black hair, trailed behind him, eyes sharp for intruders. The driver led the horse and carriage away.

  Gedeon stared at the courtier. It had been twelve years since he last saw him. He had been a young boy, a Nomori in the wrong place, stumbling into the wrong man, and that man, Jurek, had ordered his servant to make an example of him.

  Concealing a thin smile, Gedeon took a step out of the shadows and onto the path. Both men stopped, and the guardsman reached for the rapier belted at his waist.

  “Please, I ask for sanctuary,” Gedeon said softly in Erevo, the harsh-sounding language of Storm’s Quarry and its Erevan inhabitants. He spoke it well enough that his Nomori accent did not slip through.

  Master Jurek frowned. “I do not take beggars in. I make my donations to the ration lines in times of floodwaters like any good citizen. Go now, and find rest elsewhere.”

  The Nomori guardsman stepped forward to carry out his master’s words, but Gedeon let his cloak fall back to reveal a richly embroidered tunic of black silk. With his own Nomori features muted by night, he could pass for an Erevan courtier.

  The older man’s eyes widened. “Forgive me, sir. I thought you were one of the beggars from the second tier, or a Nomori layabout from the bottom.” His guardsman flinched, but the courtier did not notice. “Please, what happened to you?”

  “My name is Petro,” Gedeon said. “My manor is in the arts district, on the other side of the tier. I was headed home earlier this evening when my carriage was seized by thieves in masks. Apparently, my driver had been bought off. I barely escaped with my life.” He realized he sounded too calm, so he added some sporadic breathing for effect. Inside, he could not have been more pleased. Finally, this rat in fine silks would answer for how he’d humiliated Gedeon all those years ago. “I ran until I found myself here. I do not know this part of the city, and no carriages run this late. A bed for the night would be most appreciated. I can pay you.” He put a hand to his belt and jingled a bag of coins. If Master Jurek had doubt regarding his status, it vanished.

  “Come in, sir, and I’ll have my maid show you to our guest room. A warm bed and hot cup of tea will take away the shakes, and in the morning you can go to the Duke’s Guard and report the thieves. Nomori, were they?”

  Gedeon nodded, hiding a smile. How easy it was to manipulate this man, and he didn’t even ne
ed to draw on his power.

  Jurek sighed as he led him to the doors. “If the Duke weren’t so besotted with those witches, this city would have nothing to fear except the storms. Peace, I tell you. That’s what prevailed in Storm’s Quarry in my day.” His words turned to a low murmur as he unlocked the heavily barred door.

  Gedeon kept one eye on the Nomori guardsman. The man’s mouth drew into a tighter and tighter line until it looked like his face might crack. “I will go check the perimeter, sir,” he said curtly.

  “Good, thank you, Duren.” Jurek waved a hand. The guardsman jerked a bow and left. Gedeon watched him go. Yes, this guardsman would do nicely. Perhaps he wouldn’t get the satisfaction of killing Jurek himself, but it would conceal his involvement entirely.

  “Come, come,” Master Jurek said. He waved Gedeon through the doors into a softly lit reception hall. Paintings hung on the walls between gleaming candelabras, meticulously maintained to avoid the ever-present damp of the city. Gedeon noted the doors that led off the main hall and began creating a mental picture of the manor floor plan.

  “Lana,” Jurek called up the stairs, “we have a late guest.” He turned back, saying, “I’ll have a bed made up for…”

  Gedeon had already vanished.

  He swept through the manor, darting around corners as he followed the approximate map in his head. It was wrong about a few of the turns, but soon he reached the back door of a humbly furnished kitchen. Gedeon opened it and entered the night.

  The Nomori guardsman was checking the locks on the rear gate of the manor’s grounds. His back was turned. Gedeon stole up behind him. He waited, half concealed by shadows, as he readied the power. When Duren turned, the guardsman’s hand flew to his rapier.

  Gedeon smiled. He might share the same Nomori heritage as this man, but Duren was about as close to him as a dog was to a king.

  Before Duren could draw his sword, Gedeon pulled at the well of darkness lurking in the edges of his consciousness. It flowed through him, electrifying every nerve, and out into Duren’s furious eyes. The power latched onto the guardsman’s anger, and it became the doorway into his mind. He shook with spasms; his eyes flickered open and shut. When the power had come to rest, he opened them to reveal a pupil-less stare as black as Gedeon’s own.

  Gedeon clamped down on the power with a mental fist, cracking the whip of control. Warmth settled in his chest. He leaned forward and whispered into Duren’s ear, “Kill him.”

  *

  The citystate of Storm’s Quarry was named for both the torrential rains that plagued it every few months and the precious gemstone mines it built its fortunes upon. When the Nomori people were invited in by the Duke to use their gifts to save the city from a Great Storm twenty years ago, they gave it a different name. They called the city Natsia, Nomori for long journey home.

  Seated upon a rugged island in the center of an inland sea, Storm’s Quarry was a pearl amidst gray waters. Marble walls, fifty paces tall, surrounded the city, keeping the waters of the Kyanite Sea at bay. In the times of flooding, when the storms of old would overwhelm the island entirely, the gates were sealed shut. The waters rose so high that the city would be trapped for weeks, cut off from the traders who provided its sustenance in return for jewels. Five tiers, each separated by a wall, arose to form the city. The Duke’s palace sat at the top on the fifth tier, watching over the city like a kindly sentinel. This Duke was sympathetic to the plight of the nomadic Nomori, far more so than the Kingdom of Wintercress to the west or the South Marches, and when the chance presented itself to bring them together with the Erevan inhabitants of his city, he did so.

  Despite the Nomori Stormspeaker’s warning of the Great Storm of the Veiled Moon, as it was named, Storm’s Quarry never truly became the home they had dreamed of. The Erevans feared them for the psychic gifts their women possessed and the preternatural fighting ability of their men. The Nomori in turn feared the Erevans for their numbers, their muskets and gunpowder, and their anger. For twenty years, they had managed to live together with no small amount of tension, but mercifully few attacks or murders. The two peoples kept to themselves, and life in the city went on.

  For seventeen-year-old Nadya Gabori, life in Storm’s Quarry was never that dull.

  She had a secret.

  When the day’s duties were done, and she had finished the last delivery for her mother’s jewelery shop, she sneaked out the back window into the night. It was late spring, and the faint breeze carried a heavy heat that spoke of another oncoming season of storms. A half-moon glowed overhead. As the tier’s gas lamps wicked out, the moon’s light cut soft shadows between stone buildings. Nadya made sure to stay within their darkness as she scrambled up the side of her two-story home. Her fingers dug into the lines of mortar; her boots kicked at bricks. The night smelled faintly of damp and mold, but in Storm’s Quarry, such scents were a way of life. The near-constant rainstorms meant that everything was always wet. Perhaps those in the higher, wealthier tiers of the city could afford to have their mold scoured away, but here at the bottom, in the Nomori tier, such a thing was luxury. Just another thing the Nomori gave up in order to live close to the Kyanite Sea. They were a river-people at heart, once nomadic, traveling the coasts and tributaries, never staying in one place for long. That is, until Storm’s Quarry. Although the safety the citystate provided drew them in once the Great Storm had ceased, whispering promises of Natsia, the water still pulled at them, its nearness a comfort born into their blood.

  Gripping the edge of the roof, Nadya hauled herself up. She balanced carefully on the slanted stonework. The last of the afternoon’s light rain ran down, condensing into iridescent droplets, then dripping down to the culverts below. During storms, those carved culverts directed all the water down to the basins along the inside of the great wall of Storm’s Quarry.

  It was only weeks now, perhaps less, before the new season of storms would be upon them. And I doubt even I could stand being out in the torrential downpour that’s coming. She listened for any disturbance in her house. Even through the stone, if she was very still, she could hear the rattling of her mother’s breath as she slept.

  I have few nights like this left.

  She scanned the horizon. Clustered rooftops of Nomori dwellings and shops in every direction, leaving small gaps for roads and even smaller for drain culverts. The mass of buildings went right up to the wall, fifty paces high, that ringed the entire city.

  She backed up a few steps. Then, bending her knees, Nadya leapt across the four-pace-wide alley to their neighbor’s roof.

  The moment her boots touched stone, she was off. Running, skidding when she hit a patch of rainwater, she pushed herself to the limits of her speed. This was well-known territory to her. In the past months, the Nomori tier had become her playground at night. She thrust off skyward with her left foot, and then came down on her right. Her muscles knew the movements well, within the sturdy contours of her own body.

  Since she had discovered she was not like the rest of her people, Nadya had always felt ungainly, awkward. She had to carefully watch herself, watch her strength, make sure to hide the unnatural part of her that had surfaced. The memory of her first encounter with her abilities surged forward in her thoughts, and bile burned her tongue. She thrust it back, along with the near-reflexive prayer to the Protectress that rose in her throat. No prayer of the cursed would be answered, that she was sure of.

  Now, with the only witnesses the stars, the moon, and the city itself, Nadya let all that go. Each tier rose up before her, separated by great walls of white marble that glowed in the moonlight. Shadows punctuated the brilliance, dark veins of gutters splayed out from the city’s heart. In them ran the blood of Storm’s Quarry: rainwater, pouring down to the culverts and pumped back out into the sea. A city of tempests and ghosts, and she was a wraith, stealing through the darkness.

  During the day, she was the picture of a dutiful Nomori daughter. Except for how she talked back to her mother and i
gnored her grandmother’s speeches about marriage and upholding the family name. She worked for her mother, whose psychic gift with gemstones made her the best jeweler in the city. She pretended to have her own gift, as all Nomori women did. A bit of sight beyond sight, a ruse her enhanced senses, keen enough to hear the quickened heartbeat of a liar, helped convince everyone of.

  At night, however, Nadya was herself. And now, clambering to the top of the wall that separated the fourth tier from the lesser parts of the city, she had never felt more whole.

  Well, perhaps in a quiet moment with Kesali, hands threaded together, leaning into one another, watching the bustle of the tier go by, leaving only the two of them in its wake, an island to themselves. Even then, she had to be in character, to hide what made her different.

  The fourth tier of Storm’s Quarry, home to the wealthy elite, sat just one step below the palace. Its buildings were nearly four times as high as those in the Nomori tier and as she stood on the wall before it, she felt dwarfed by them.

  Here, the Duke’s Guard patrolled often. She could not linger, no matter how breathtaking the view. Backing up until her tunic touched the opposite parapet, Nadya kept her eyes and ears keen. For the moment, all was still. She took a deep breath. It filled her lungs, her body, bolstering the excited energy that buzzed in her limbs.

  Like a bullet released from its musket, Nadya shot forward. Going up and away, she made an arc over the wall and down onto the lower roof of the nearest manor. She landed on one knee. Pain shot through her leg. It would bruise, but it’d be healed by noon tomorrow. Nadya climbed up the wall to the top. Here, she stood higher than everything except the upper wall and the palace. Here, she thought, puffing with excitement and exertion, she could truly push her limits. It was a distance of nearly one hundred paces between where she stood and the next manor. A distance she had never before attempted.