Read Online Darkness at Dawn by Elizabeth Jennings - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Elizabeth Jennings
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people’s DNA. In the Time Before Time, Nhala had occupied the entire Himalayas and the Indian subcontinent. Nhala had ruled over the peoples of the mountains and valleys with grace and mercy, ensuring peace and prosperity throughout the land.
A thousand generations ago, invaders drove the Nhalan people back into their small valley.
But one day, a Snow Dragon—a creature of immense power and wisdom—would emerge from the north and lead the people into a new age of peace, a new dawn. There were tattered flags on prayer wheels fluttering in the wind, that had been in that exact same spot for a thousand years, replaced every decade or so, calling upon the Snow Dragon to return from the mountains to the valley and to restore the empire. Return the people to peace and prosperity.
General Changa doubted there was even a shred of historical truth to the legend. His people were, alas, ignorant and superstitious peasants. But that was no reason not to use the legend for his own purposes.
So a parchment had been conveniently found in a cave in the north of the country. He’d had it buried in wet soil for a couple of weeks to age it, and the text—written by a scholar in the Old Language—spoke of the return of the Snow Dragon in terms that clearly pointed to him.
When Princess Paso had timidly suggested that Lucy Merritt—the daughter of the two American anthropologists who’d happened to be at the right time at the right place and were legends in the countryside—was a famous manuscript restorer, he’d nearly laughed aloud.
The child of the Merritts, harmless scholars who happened to know how to shoot, would be the agency by which he would rise to power.
Though he didn’t really believe in this nonsense, goose bumps had risen on his arms, because having the daughter of the Merritts—whose names were now regularly included in the prayers of half the country—“restore” the document would give it enormous legitimacy in the eyes of the people.
Of course, if she were anywhere close to being competent, Merritt would soon discover it was a fake, but her fate was definitely to die young.
Changa would see to that. Just as Jomo’s fate was to die young and soon, and Princess Paso’s fate was to marry him, so that the new leader of an enormous new country would not only have military credentials, but be part of the line of the Royal Family that had ruled his country for centuries.
He didn’t believe in the winds of fate, but nonetheless he could feel them blowing at his back, propelling him into a glorious future.
WASHINGTON, DC
“What’s your name?” Lucy Merritt asked, perched on a hassock at his side, looking cool and collected in the middle of the frenzy.
A lock of his hair drifted down onto the floor and Mike winced. It lay there like a long, dark snake on Lucy’s pristine light-colored hardwood floor.
“Don’t worry, sir, we’ll sweep it all up,” the guy cutting his hair said behind him, as another lock fell, then another.
He was at the center of five people fluttering around him, one cutting his hair, one preparing some sharp tools, one stropping a razor—Mike was keeping an eye on that one, he’d been sent by Montgomery—one pulling out clothes and one doing his goddamned nails.
“Michael Everett Harrington. Born March 6, 1977—which makes me a Pisces—in New York City, of Lorraine Everett Harrington, attorney, currently with the offices of Singleton, Weinstein, Locke and Harrington, and Rupert Harrington, retired banker.”
None of that was true, of course. He’d been born on January 19, 1976, of Sally Hughes Shafer, homemaker, who died when he was two, and Bob Shafer, owner of Shafer Demolitions. And Mike was a Capricorn.
“Other hand, sir,” the manicurist said, and he looked at his right hand. A manicure. A frigging manicure , the first of his life. He kept his nails short and clean, but that was it. Now his nails looked like shiny little works of art. He held out his left
A thousand generations ago, invaders drove the Nhalan people back into their small valley.
But one day, a Snow Dragon—a creature of immense power and wisdom—would emerge from the north and lead the people into a new age of peace, a new dawn. There were tattered flags on prayer wheels fluttering in the wind, that had been in that exact same spot for a thousand years, replaced every decade or so, calling upon the Snow Dragon to return from the mountains to the valley and to restore the empire. Return the people to peace and prosperity.
General Changa doubted there was even a shred of historical truth to the legend. His people were, alas, ignorant and superstitious peasants. But that was no reason not to use the legend for his own purposes.
So a parchment had been conveniently found in a cave in the north of the country. He’d had it buried in wet soil for a couple of weeks to age it, and the text—written by a scholar in the Old Language—spoke of the return of the Snow Dragon in terms that clearly pointed to him.
When Princess Paso had timidly suggested that Lucy Merritt—the daughter of the two American anthropologists who’d happened to be at the right time at the right place and were legends in the countryside—was a famous manuscript restorer, he’d nearly laughed aloud.
The child of the Merritts, harmless scholars who happened to know how to shoot, would be the agency by which he would rise to power.
Though he didn’t really believe in this nonsense, goose bumps had risen on his arms, because having the daughter of the Merritts—whose names were now regularly included in the prayers of half the country—“restore” the document would give it enormous legitimacy in the eyes of the people.
Of course, if she were anywhere close to being competent, Merritt would soon discover it was a fake, but her fate was definitely to die young.
Changa would see to that. Just as Jomo’s fate was to die young and soon, and Princess Paso’s fate was to marry him, so that the new leader of an enormous new country would not only have military credentials, but be part of the line of the Royal Family that had ruled his country for centuries.
He didn’t believe in the winds of fate, but nonetheless he could feel them blowing at his back, propelling him into a glorious future.
WASHINGTON, DC
“What’s your name?” Lucy Merritt asked, perched on a hassock at his side, looking cool and collected in the middle of the frenzy.
A lock of his hair drifted down onto the floor and Mike winced. It lay there like a long, dark snake on Lucy’s pristine light-colored hardwood floor.
“Don’t worry, sir, we’ll sweep it all up,” the guy cutting his hair said behind him, as another lock fell, then another.
He was at the center of five people fluttering around him, one cutting his hair, one preparing some sharp tools, one stropping a razor—Mike was keeping an eye on that one, he’d been sent by Montgomery—one pulling out clothes and one doing his goddamned nails.
“Michael Everett Harrington. Born March 6, 1977—which makes me a Pisces—in New York City, of Lorraine Everett Harrington, attorney, currently with the offices of Singleton, Weinstein, Locke and Harrington, and Rupert Harrington, retired banker.”
None of that was true, of course. He’d been born on January 19, 1976, of Sally Hughes Shafer, homemaker, who died when he was two, and Bob Shafer, owner of Shafer Demolitions. And Mike was a Capricorn.
“Other hand, sir,” the manicurist said, and he looked at his right hand. A manicure. A frigging manicure , the first of his life. He kept his nails short and clean, but that was it. Now his nails looked like shiny little works of art. He held out his left
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