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Book of Days

Published in the United States by Double Dragon eBooks, a division of Double

Dragon Publishing Inc., Markham, Ontario Canada.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any

means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording,

taping, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in

writing from Double Dragon Publishing.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products

of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events

or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

A Double Dragon eBook

Published by

Double Dragon Publishing, Inc.

PO Box 54016

1-5762 Highway 7 East

Markham, Ontario L3P 7Y4 Canada

www.double-dragon-ebooks.com

www.double-dragon-publishing.com

ISBN: 1-55404-295-X

A DDP First Edition September 26, 2005

Book Layout and

Cover Art by Deron Douglas

BOOK OF DAYS

by Sara Reinke

This book is dedicated with love in memory of my uncle,

James E. “Pete” Howard

(August 1, 1956-April 11, 2001), Chief Petty Officer, United States Navy,

who began it all with a simple gift that has yielded a lifetime of bounties for me ...

And in memory of my father-in-law, Rodney R. Reinke

(October 18, 1941-June 8, 2001),

in whose gentle smiles lay unspoken volumes.

Ta a fhios sin agam ta sibh in eineacht le me.

Go raimh maith agat, mo'cairde. Codladh samh duit.

Prologue

The year 1712 of the Third Age

"I have failed you,” Dagarron Atreile whispered. He pressed the rim of a pewter cup

to his lips and tossed his head back, feeling brimague run down his throat with dim

heat.

It had taken three days for the news to reach the small haven of Mehnine. When it

had, it had spread like wildfire in dried witchgrass, as grim tidings so often do in

quiet hamlets and close-knit communities. Dagarron had heard tell of it by lunchtime;

murmurs that King Herdranges had been butchered, his royal counsels and guard

massacred, his throne stolen by the brother of his Elfin Queen. Herdranges's infant

children, the twin heirs to his crown, had been slain and his wife, Queen Lythaniele,

had thrown herself from one of the castle towers.

"I have failed you all,” Dagarron said. He sat along the crowded bar of Mehnine's

solitary, cramped pub, the Fortune's Folly. He had spent the grand majority of his

day there with a cup in his hands and a grief so profound that it weighed like iron

upon his heart. At the sound of a small voice crying out in startled fear behind him,

he glanced over his shoulder, drawn from his sorrow.

"What are you doing here, Elf?” he heard a man say loudly, followed by a sharp,

distinctive slapping sound and another frightened, tremulous cry.

Dagarron had observed a young Gaeilge boy stealing into the pub several moments

earlier. No more than eleven or twelve to judge by his diminutive stature, the

wide-eyed lad had exhibited a level of curiosity uncharacteristic of Elves, and

boldness at entering a tavern filled with drunken menfolk that demonstrated a higher

degree of innocent naiveté than good sense. Dagarron had recognized him as a

Donnag'crann, a sect of Gaeilge Elves who called the dense and sprawling forests of

Tirnag'crann to the south of Mehnine their home. He could have warned the boy that

the tavern on that night in particular was no place for Elves. The air within the

Fortune's Folly was thick with heated and venomous conversations directed against

the usurper king, at Lahnduren's new regime, and against Elves in general.

A burly man standing nearly twice as tall as the little Elf had spied him creeping

among the crowd and had seized him roughly by the hair. A large group of men, all

too filled with portar and brimague to reason with coherence or clarity, had gathered

about, their lips twisted into menacing and wicked sneers. Dagarron pivoted in his

seat, letting his hips slide toward the edge of the stool, his boot soles drop to the

floor.

"Le ... le do thoil ... ni dteannan sibh!” the boy whimpered, his eyes enormous with

fright, shining in the glow of lanterns with sudden tears. Please do not!

"Speak the popular speech, cub,” the man snapped, and again, he slapped the boy's

face. “This is Mehnine you trespass in—a village of menfolk!"

"We do not speak your bastard Elf tongue here!” cried another, stepping forward,

his fingers closing into purposeful fists. “Hold him still. Let me teach him how to

speak in the company of men."

"Leave him alone,” Dagarron said, walking slowly toward them, fixing his gaze on

the man holding the boy's hair. “Let the boy go."

There was not a man in Mehnine who did not know Dagarron by face and name, if

not by reputation. As he passed, he heard the crowd of men whisper sharply

together, scuttling away from him uncertainly.

"He is an Elf!” the man holding the boy shouted to Dagarron. “Elves murdered our

king—your blood kin, Dagarron!"

"He is a child,” Dagarron said, his brows drawing together, his voice measured but

stern. “Lahnduren killed Herdranges. This boy did not. Let him go."

"Le do thoil!” the boy whimpered again. Please!

"Shut your mouth, whelp!” the man yelled, raising his hand again. The boy cowered,

his hands dancing helplessly toward his face in frightened anticipation of the blow.

Dagarron moved swiftly, closing his fingers against the man's thick wrist. He rotated

the man's thumb away from his shoulder, forcing his arm to hyperextend at an

abrupt and agonizing angle. The man yowled in startled pain, his fingertips slipping

free of the boy's hair as he struggled against Dagarron's immobilizing grip. The boy

scuttled against the wall, crumpling to his knees, shrinking into the corner.

The man balled his hand to punch Dagarron, and Dagarron wrenched his wrist all the

further. The man cried out sharply, stumbling, falling to his knees. “Let ... let go of

me!” he bellowed. “Sweet Mother! Turn me loose!"

"If you touch the boy again, you will answer to me,” Dagarron said. He swept the

gathering of angry men with his gaze. “If any of you move to harm the Elf, you will

need to pass me to do it."

He thrust the man's wrist away from him and stepped toward the boy, his gaze sharp

and wary. “Go back to your portars,” Dagarron told the men. “All of you now. Go

back to your portars and let this boy pass."

He turned toward the boy, and genuflected before him. The boy shied further into

the corner, his green eyes enormous, his tears spilling unabated.

"Le ... le do thoil,” he whimpered. “Le do thoil ... ni ... ni gorteann tu agam!” Please

do not hurt me.

"Ta se maith,” Dagarron said to him gently. It is alright. “Ni eagliann tu, a'leaid. Ni

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