The Dawn King (The Moon People, Book Five) Read online

  Contents

  License Notes

  Novels of The Moon People Saga

  Author's Note

  1 - Priest of the Son

  2 - Daughter of the Night

  3 - Forgotten Family

  4 - The Meeting

  5 - Deathly Currents

  6 - The King's Conclave

  7 - Adel and Kiren

  8 - The Tunnel

  9 - Netya and Kale

  10 - A Taste of Home

  11 - Caspian and Fern

  12 - Beron's House

  13 - Wild Folk

  14 - The Sun's Magic

  15 - Broken Hearts

  16 - The Dawn King

  17 - Silent Steps

  18 - The Concubines

  19 - Night Lights

  20 - Authority

  21 - Among Friends

  22 - Priest of the Sister

  23 - Desperation

  24 - Familiar Foes

  25 - Mending

  26 - Fate's Burden

  27 - A Forgotten Hope

  28 - Punishment

  29 - Uncertainty

  30 - Liliac's Plan

  31 - Adel's Gift

  32 - Thakayn's Judgement

  33 - Blood and Blades

  34 - The Eye of the Storm

  35 - Phantom Pain

  36 - The Cold Plains

  37 - Ambition

  38 - Desperate Desires

  39 - Last Love

  40 - Homecoming

  41 - Rodan's Counsel

  42 - Adel's Hope

  43 - Sayla

  44 - Succession

  45 - Torment

  46 - Sister

  47 - Good Men

  48 - A Sister's Sacrifice

  49 - The Conclave's End

  50 - A New Power

  51 - Ashes in the Wind

  52 - The Feast of the Sun

  53 - Little Mother

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  THE DAWN KING

  Claudia King

  Published by Claudia King at Smashwords

  Copyright © 2019 Claudia King

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Proceeds from sales directly help this author to continue doing what she loves, and to share it with you the reader!

  Novels of The Moon People Saga:

  The Alpha’s Concubine

  Daughter of the Moon

  Daughter of the Night

  Sun Huntress

  Sisters of Syr

  Acknowledgements

  Many thanks to Julie (duongcovers.com) for her wonderful work in designing the cover art for this title, to Anna for her assistance with nitpicks and proofing, the lovely folks of KBoards for providing a wealth of knowledge, advice, and assistance in all-things authorly, along with everyone else who helped to encourage me over the course of this project!

  For newcomers to the series:

  Don’t you just hate it when a book series has a bunch of titles that aren’t numbered? With prequels, spin-offs, and mainline entries all jumbled together, with no indication of where you should start reading?

  Ahem.

  Well fear not, for as The Moon People Saga continues to expand I shall be adding some little reading lists here at the start of each book so that you’re not too lost with where to begin.

  Chronological reading order:

  1 - Daughter of the Night

  2 - The Alpha’s Concubine

  3 - Daughter of the Moon

  4 - Sun Huntress

  5 - Sisters of Syr

  6 - The Dawn King

  This reading order is suggested for those who wish to experience the story by following its chronological progression, with the first book taking place at the beginning of the timeline, and the last most recently.

  Author’s reading order:

  1 - The Alpha’s Concubine

  2 - Daughter of the Moon

  3 - Daughter of the Night

  4 - Sun Huntress

  5 - Sisters of Syr

  6 - The Dawn King

  This reading order is the one I personally recommend as the author, corresponding with the order in which the books were written. I feel that certain story elements, mysteries, and revelations are more compelling when the series is experienced in this way, and that the consistency of the writing style flows more naturally from one book to the next.

  —1—

  Priest of the Son

  “Again, High Priest?” the guardsman Ryndel said, his features pinching with dismay. This was not the first time Jarek had slipped out of the temple, nor would it be the last. He had no true power to intervene, yet it was he who would have to answer to the Dawn King when the inevitable question was asked.

  “You could look away,” Jarek, High Priest of the Son, said, gesturing over the man's shoulder. “Pretend you were watching the children over there. Let Heinar answer for once.”

  Ryndel glanced to his fellow temple guard on the other side of the entranceway. Heinar never said anything. From dawn till dusk he stood resolute, eyes forward, only intervening if the queueing laypeople caused trouble.

  “You're right,” Jarek sighed, patting the warrior on the shoulder. “You're too honest of a servant, I know. That is why we have you watching the temple gates.”

  “None of the other high priests leave as often as you,” Ryndel said. It was merely an observation, but Jarek could hear the implicit reproach in the man's voice.

  “Has the Dawn King made his word against it?”

  “You know his word better than I, High Priest.”

  Jarek chuckled. “Whether I wish to or not. But!” He reached into the folds of his woolen tunic, the light blue dyeing of which had been interspersed with threads of yellow to reflect his status. The bronze-bladed knife he produced boasted a ring of white seastones around the handle. After prying one loose, he pressed it into Ryndel's palm. “I hope this will make up for your trouble.”

  The guardsman looked down at the smooth gem for a moment, tucked it into his satchel, bowed, and kissed his palm in a show of reverence.

  “For you and your generosity, High Priest.”

  “For guardsmen as dutiful as you, I am glad to give it.” Jarek turned to leave before pivoting back on his heel at the last moment, a questioning finger held aloft. “One thing before I depart. Did the night guard mention a girl when they passed you their spears this morning?”

  “A girl, High Priest?”

  “One who came alone to the temple gates in the middle of the night. How did she look? A traveller? One of the laypeople? Clean? Dirty? Filled with fire, or raving at the moon?”

  Ryndel shook his head. “The night guard are more eager to find their beds than tell tales when we come to relieve them.”

  “Hm.”

  The guardsman's composure slipped again as he shot Jarek a sideways look. “If it's some girl you seek we would gladly search the village on your behalf.”

  “Now where's the fun in that, Ryndel?” Jarek kissed his fingers and flicked them into the air, as if tasting a succulent morsel on the wind. “I've an excuse to wander, and I shall take it. Rumours of strange women demanding audiences after dark stir my interest.”

  “As you say, High Priest.”

  The guardsman's stoic tone drew a smile from Jarek. Respe
ctful though it was, the underlying sentiment was obvious. Ryndel and the others thought their priest of the Son very strange. He walked where other priests did not walk and spoke as they did not speak. While the men and women around him wore light skin and straight, oil-sleek hair, Jarek was dark as the earth, sporting thick braids adorned with metal ringlets and speaking with a tune in his voice that marked him as a traveller from far-off lands.

  He knew things, too, that none of these Sun People had ever known. He carried secrets that none of them could know. None but the Dawn King himself.

  Bright springtime sun warmed Jarek's skin as he stepped between the lattice of shadows cast by the six pillars of the great spirits. Rough and simple though they were, the stacked discs of stone drew many offerings from the laypeople who waited outside the temple entrance. It pleased him to see a great many woven grass talismans adorning the pillar of the Son that morning. Standing no higher than a child, the simple monument nonetheless represented the hope that so many of the Sun People turned to in times of need.

  Jarek struck a jaunty pace down the hill, following the well-trod path that led to the surrounding village. Dust and pebbles scattered around his sandals, scaring off the clutch of rodents that always gathered to pick over the refuse cast out by the temple servants. The heartland plains stretched out around him for as far as the eye could see, dusty paths and irrigation ditches winding their way between the smoke threads of farms and hunting houses. On a clear day one could even make out some of the far-off villages on the horizon, but no matter how distant they were all of them looked up in homage to the temple of the Dawn King. It was the Dawn King who had gathered the wisest shamans of the land, he who had trained the strongest warriors, he who held the power to take tribute from the other villages as so many other powerful chieftains had done before him. Yet rather than ruling greedily, like the warlords of the past, the Dawn King had ruled for every man, woman, and child of his people. He had used his warriors not to extort tribute, but to ensure that the most prosperous villages always helped provide for the ones in need, strengthening the whole rather than the few. He had sent shamans between settlements freely, spreading the wisdom of the spirits for all to hear, tending illness, and healing wounds.

  Today, the Dawn King no longer needed to make demands of his people using the threat of his warriors. They sent their excess harvest to the temple willingly. Students arrived from across the land, eager to learn from those wisest of shamans who now bore the title “priest”. To the temple village came food, knowledge, trade, and so much more. As Jarek walked he passed by the path that led to the craftsmen's rise, where earthen kilns burned night and day. Clay became pottery up there, wood became beams, and, most importantly of all, ore made its transformation into metal.

  It was the leader who saw the wisdom in cultivating these crafts who had invited Jarek to join his priesthood all those years ago. He'd been a lost, wandering boy of the Moon People caught off his guard in the Sun People's lands. The Dawn King alone had noticed how a cut left on Jarek's arm by a warrior's spear had healed in less than a day. As was the Dawn King's way, he had seen opportunity in this thing rather than danger.

  “Be my voice from another land,” he had told Jarek. “My eyes from another people. Show me your ways as I show you mine. Do this for me, and you will be as a chieftain among chieftains. A captive no longer, but a hand of the Dawn King himself.”

  At first Jarek had resisted the offer. Power and status were not things that lost boy had ever craved. Yet as he had languished in the temple domicile, a prisoner in name only, he had grown to see how this Dawn King was different from the alphas of his homeland. Here was a man who craved knowledge not just for the power it could bring him, but for the potential that it held. In time Jarek had seen how such knowledge could be used for good. He learned of the strife the Sun People suffered—sickness, injury, the slowing of their wolfless bodies—and the ingenious methods they had devised to rise above it. Once Jarek had learned of these things, he had grown to care about them. During their conversations, where he slowly curled his tongue around all the intricacies of the Sun People's language, the Dawn King gradually ceased to be his captor and became his friend.

  Here, in the heartlands of the Sun People, Jarek had finally found a reason to stop wandering. It had filled him with fresh hope, and hope was the predilection of the Son—the great spirit of the Sun People that embodied optimism and faith in the future. Seeing this newfound light in Jarek, the Dawn King had named him High Priest, granting him a permanent place in the temple and a voice among the conclave of leadership.

  The only thing the Dawn King had forbidden him from doing was revealing his true nature, for that would invite danger that could unsettle the entire temple. The Moon People were abominations in the eyes of many, barbaric demons that lurked only in the darkest corners of the world. Tales of their kind inspired fear among youngsters and dread-fascination around the hearths of wayhouses late at night. Only some of the pilgrims and traders, those who had travelled the lands of the Moon People themselves, had cause to speak differently of them. One such man, a shaman named Ilen Ra, had held the Dawn King's ear before Jarek thanks to his great knowledge of the mysterious shapeshifters.

  Of all the men and women who had been invited to hold council at the temple over the years, Ilen Ra was the only one Jarek had ever suspected of guessing at his true nature. Even the other high priests were oblivious, but Ilen Ra had been possessed of a cunning quite unlike any other. He was the kind of man who could embrace you as friend with one arm while holding a poisoned needle behind his back with the other. A great asset, and a great danger.

  Yet Jarek did not have to worry himself over Ilen Ra that spring. The shaman had been due back from his latest pilgrimage more than two seasons ago, and many feared that he had braved the lands of the Moon People one time too many. Jarek felt for the foolish young warriors who had followed Ilen Ra on his ill-fated quest, but he could not deny the relief he felt now that the old man was gone.

  With a playful tune humming on his lips, Jarek meandered between the houses at the base of the hill, straying off the main path to avoid the eyes of the laypeople who were going about their morning work. He would have disrobed of his priestly attire if he thought it would help him blend in better with the village folk, but there was no mistaking his dark complexion no matter how plainly he dressed.

  With a grin of amusement he realised that the best way for him to avoid attention would have been to take the shape of his wolf. Wild beasts sometimes came to gorge themselves upon the refuse of the village, and a few of the tamer ones had even won themselves the affection of the laypeople. Then again, his wolf might be a little too big to pass for a scavenging animal.

  If only I could take the shape of an aurochs or a chicken.

  Skirting around a line of drying earthen bricks, Jarek hopped over a sludgy irrigation ditch at the back of the village's largest wayhouse and approached its rear wall. It was built in much the same fashion as the temple of the Dawn King, with hefty wooden beams providing support for dry stone walls held together with a mixture of clay and earth, all smoothed over with mud on the outside. Each year new murals would be painted into the mud before it softened and had to be replaced during the wet season. Squat and square, the house sheltered its visitors just as well as any cave.

  Jarek ducked beneath the drapes at the back entrance and shouldered aside a wooden screen designed to keep wild beasts out. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the inner gloom, just long enough for a burly man with a beard as full as his scalp was bald to appear in front of him.

  “Jarek,” the man sighed. “Come to the front next time, eh? I'll not think you're one of those boys after the drink then.” He hauled the high priest upright, brushing grass from the drapes off his shoulders with an attentiveness that belied his rough appearance.

  “The front has twice as many eyes to spy me and twice as many mouths begging the temple's blessing,” Jarek said.

&nbs
p; The wayhouse keeper grinned. “You love being begged for blessings.”

  “When I have time to give them.” Jarek waved him off. “You're the only one I came to speak with today. There was a girl who approached the temple last night, a strange one.” He cocked an exaggerated eyebrow at the man. “You have any strange girls in here, Nirut?”

  “Every day. How strange do you want them, High Priest?” Nirut shoved the screen back over the doorway and gestured Jarek through into an adjoining chamber. They had been in the cooking area, and across from that lay the room in which Nirut and his family slept. A dull murmur of conversation reached them through the wall that separated the back section of the wayhouse from its large central chamber, but it was far more subdued than the usual cacophony of noise that filled the place.

  “A girl strange enough to come asking to join a pilgrimage in the dead of night,” Jarek said.

  “Ah. I know that one. Traveller, was she? Dark of hair, and not well washed?”

  “I never saw her myself.”

  “Come, then,” Nirut said, picking up a hooded cloak from one of the antlers that served as ceiling hooks and tossing it to Jarek. “She's sleeping here with the other travellers. Asks after pilgrims all day long. I'd cast her out for the nuisance she causes, but Hena tells me to be patient with her.” The wayhouse keeper continued to grumble as Jarek donned the cloak and drew up its hood, thankful for his companion's understanding of his desire for anonymity. Shrouded beneath the garment, he followed Nirut out into the central chamber, sticking to the sun-facing wall upon which the single window was still covered. With the shadows concealing him only the keenest eye would have been able to discern the high priest's true identity, and many of the two dozen or so men and women occupying the wayhouse were still asleep in Nirut's low hammocks. On the opposite side of the room two families sat at a well-used table, its uneven split-log surface stained with the refuse of many a meal. Aside from a few distracted glances, they ignored Jarek, leaving Nirut free to lead him to the front corner of the room in which a bundle of ragged furs sat piled against the wall. Nirut gave the pile a kick, and it groaned.