Kathy Kimbray's debut novel A Shifting of Stars releases today and fans of fantasy are going to love it! Danger, magic and hints of romance, A Shifting of Stars has something for everyone.
CHAPTER ONE
I
should not be here. I’m foreign to this village of broken rooftops and
dull stone walls. I brush my fingers over a pillar. Its coldness burns
my skin, makes me pause.
Go home.
The
words sing loud like a taunt as moonlight slithers across my shoulders.
The parchment digs like thorns in my palm. I imagine its shape, every
fiber and ink blot.
Something
moves near my feet and I jump. It’s just a rat, one of hordes from the
city. They’ve grown bolder during these past few seasons, always darting
out of alleys
and running by arches, desperate—like us—to fill their bellies.
As
it squeaks away, nails tapping in rhythm, I inspect the darkened street
before me. Lamplight glows from a crooked post, but the shadows are
still and the windows
are empty. A leaf-strewn house looms in the distance, enticing me over
the cobblestone ground. That house is the reason I’ve ventured so late
into this weary part of town. Beside me, buildings cringe with moss.
Walkways glisten with dirty puddles. Teetering
balconies slouch from walls with garments strung between casements like
cobwebs.
But that smell.
I
halt to sniff the air. It wafts from the dwelling ahead of me. It winds
from beneath its splintered panes—the pungent scent of broth and ale.
I wish it were stew.
Saliva
brims on my tongue at the thought of meat cooked with spices and oils.
The last time venison passed my lips, my mother was alive, my father
smiled, and the
future stretched before us, unending. Those were the days of Emperor
Komran, a king who lived and bled for his people. I barely remember the
white of his beard or how he limped through the fields during harvest.
And it’s the same with my mother. I’m losing
her, too. The curve of her cheek. The shade of her tresses. When she
died, we set her afloat in the Geynes, and I sat on the bank with my
toes in the water, not wanting to break that connection to her.
It’s a year tonight.
My
chest starts to cave, but I fight and I fight to be still, to not cry.
At least the dead are not hungry, not in turmoil. They do not see what
Centriet has become.
I
urge my feet toward the house. Komran would never have driven me here.
When he reigned, our streets were routinely swept, and fountains dotted
the well-kept pavements.
And medicine was—
A
loose stone clacks. Forgetting my thoughts, I dart to an alcove. Since
Komran’s son became our emperor, soldiers lurk where you’d least expect
them.
In
the dark, I steady my breaths, in and out. Not that I’m breaking any
laws—that I know of. I listen to the night: crickets chirping, a soft
breeze, and the whinny
of a horse that’s so indistinct, perhaps it’s from Sledloe, the next
village over.
I
wait longer, just to be safe. Many of the soldiers are kind, though not
all. Father says they’ve been granted more powers, but that we won’t
know what it means for
a while.
I
hate not knowing. Just like tonight. I hate not knowing what awaits in
the house. When the street remains silent, I rejoin the road, but my
ankles wobble when I
try to walk.
So I jog.
It
soothes my jangled nerves, and I reach the house, breathless and
flushed. Planks board the four square windows; rust from the nails seeps
into the woodgrain. The
stones are all different sizes and shapes, charred by the remnants of a
long-ago fire. Ivy clings to the rutted surface, its end pieces curling
like ribbon from the door.
You should leave, Meadow.
But
I raise my fist. All I need to do is knock. I’ve already abandoned my
stonebrick at dusk without letting Father know where I have gone. The
loss of my mother hits
me anew—the pain a reminder of why I have come here. That I’ve come to
move on, to at last let her go. Even though I’m not sure what that means
anymore.
Or if I can.
“Are you here for the Gathering?”
The
question shatters the bracing air. Someone’s behind me and I spin to
face him, shrouding myself with my long dark hair. But I’m wrong. There
are two. One’s tall
and strapping. The other is smaller in every way. As they chance
another step, I notice that they’re young—about my age, seventeen.
“Why I’m here is not your concern,” I say.
“We
do beg your pardon,” the smaller boy says. He has a scar on his brow
like a cutlass. And another on his forearm, dark as molasses. He
gestures to the vacant street
behind him. “Have you ever visited Yahres before?”
“Yes,” I say, though my words are false. It’s safer to make them believe I’m a local.
“And your name?” asks the boy, but I shake my head at the same time his companion lets out a grunt.
“Don’t bother,” he snaps. “We leave tomorrow.”
The smaller boy nods, looking slightly embarrassed.
“We watched you for a bit,” he tells me.
“And what did you see?” I ask.
He smiles. One of his teeth is chipped. “We assumed you’d turn back many times.”
My
pulse quickens at their presumption, especially since it’s mostly true.
The slums of Yahres are outside the walls. My home lies inside in the
village of Maytown.
In Maytown we’re warned to always tread wisely in places like Yahres,
Florian, and Sledloe. Perhaps that’s why I’d appeared so unsure. Yet
neither of the pair looks remarkably dangerous.
“You proved us wrong,” the boy continues.
“No hard feelings,” I say.
He laughs. “Come inside with us.”
He holds out a hand, but I back away.
“Forgive
me,” he says, withdrawing swiftly, color blotching his cheeks. “We
lodge with the man who hosts these gatherings . . . and I noticed you
had a parchment to
read.”
“You
saw?” I jolt, clutching it tightly, blood surging through my legs and
arms. Since Mother’s passing, it happens quite often. My heart beats
fast, and I need to
run.
“You don’t have to read it,” he says.
I swallow.
“Although you can if you want to, of course. Unless you didn’t come here for the Gathering?”
“I doubt she’s here for anything else.”
It’s
much too hard to read his expression, but the taller boy speaks with a
dash of disdain. He sidesteps his friend with two no-nonsense strides.
“You don’t know my business,” I say.
“Oh,
please.” He comes in close, reaching past me, and the scent of leather
and steel is intense. It reminds me of sitting in my father’s workroom
when he’s mending
quivers for the elder archers. The boy raps on the door with his
knuckles. Three times, then nothing. The way we’re supposed to. “Of
course you’re here for the Gathering,” he says, as metal grinds and a
peephole opens.
My need to bolt escalates.
“Get
in. You’re the last,” says the face inside. The cumbersome timber
shifts outward before us. It breaks the leaves and they flutter in
spirals.
“After you,” the tall boy says.
The parchment feels like a stone in my hand. It dawns on me how stifled this is—this narrow black corridor, deep in the kingdom.
I
brush the still-dangling leaves to one side. The passageway stretches a
good twenty paces. I could perish in there and no one would find me.
“Are you waiting for something?”
“No,” I say.
Ignoring
the boy, I stoop to enter, trying to focus my thoughts on the
brickwork. The blocks have eroded from years of scuffing. They smell
like lichen and tarnished
copper. Light spills through the distant doorframe, and our guide
clears his throat to urge us on. I double my pace, though the boys hang
back. The weight of their presence behind me is strong.
After graduating from the University of Technology, Sydney, with a degree in Media Arts and Production, she went on to complete postgraduate studies in education and spent many years as a primary school teacher.
Aside from writing, Kathy is an avid reader, dancer, language learner, musical theater enthusiast and fan of terrible reality TV. She lives with her husband in Sydney, and dreams of one day owning that elusive chateau in France.
