The Book of Juno

There weren't always dragons in the Valley. My father’s book whispers of a time before winged shadows passed over the land. Beneath my hand, each page turns from one hushed tale to the next. Legends unfurl and letters march in perfect rows abreast of forgotten narratives. These words were penned before the mountains had yet felt the imprint of a soldier’s boot or echoed the beat of war drums. From when the only marks of age upon the mountains’ faces were carved by unwitnessed storms and the hooves of rams; not worried by the scourge of divine judgment.

I brace the book’s spine against my cold pillow, willing my shaky hands to be gentle with its worn edges. It was my father’s favorite novel, the only one he owned borne of our ancestors’ tongue. His annotations, tattooed upon my mind, complement the foreign flavor of the story’s ink. He taught me enough to understand the timeless tale as he had, to feel closer to our origins.

Before dragons were created to guard it, the Valley of Malum was a paradise. The world's first mortals lived in the gods' garden at its heart-center, in harmony with the divine. Though this book ends with the decree which exiled humans, it starts with a love story.

As a cartographer, my father had a talent for drawing conclusions. While most researchers focus on where things begin or end, my father's riskiest obsession was with finding where things went wrong. The simple origin story, embittered with unanswered questions, is sweetened by his speculative translations. His scrawled comments are easier to interpret than the denser language of the text. I can imagine his words in his voice if I focus. Sometimes the memory of his voice eludes me. Especially when I read the first note in the book.

"All the world fit in her palm, the size of an apple. Though she was not cursed to know its weight, she did feel its bruises."

The lines aren't even from this book, and they don't match his tone of thought. I've been looking for the quote in his other books for months. Looking until my eyes burn and my head aches. That's when I wish he was still here, leading me through his wandering mind, seeking the muses, and tracing the fault lines of the world.

I pinch the bridge of my nose and close my strained eyes for a moment.

Rain patters against the hovel’s opaque window panes; droplets slipping through the imperfect, thatched roof and splashing into an awaiting pail. Grandmother’s soft snores mingle with the wind’s restless groans. I sigh, glancing at my dog. He always sleeps beside my bed, a breathing shadow.

These things remind me that I am safe—cradled in a realm of candlelight and a library of maps to sate any thirst I might have for the outside world. A thirst which comes, most often, in the middle of the night. When my bed feels too small, and my wool blanket scratches my skin. When the four walls of our home can’t keep me from following in my father’s wonderings.

I tuck my thoughts between the covers of the book, to rest alongside his, and lay my head down to sleep.

A thunderous knock awakens me at dawn. I jolt upright, bumping the book onto the floorboards of our one-room hovel.

“Shite,” I hiss under my breath and pick up the book with trembling hands, nearly dropping it a second time.

My dog positions himself between me and the front door. His iron-colored fur is raised on the back of his neck, and his growl makes my skin pebble.

“Good boy,” I say, squinting as the hazy morning light seeps through the windows over grandmother’s empty bed. Shadows cross the frosted glass.

Another rap at the door earns a howl from Tour.

“Who’s there?” I ask, standing.

“Captain of the Guard. Open up.” The deep-timbred voice rattles me more than the knocking.

I move to Tour’s side and knot my hand in his fur. His yellow eyes remain trained on the door. Booted feet shift in the gravel before the threshold. The intrusion of darkness crawling in beneath the door makes me take a step back.

“What do you want? My grandmother isn’t here.”

“Which is why we need to speak with you, Ramiel.” The man’s voice softens.

My brows shoot upward as my chest tightens. Nobody has called for me by name in years. I didn’t think anybody even remembered my grandmother didn’t live alone.

Tour stays beside me as we cross the room. My heart thunders in my chest and my hands tremble as I reach for the doorknob. It’s been one-hundred and seventy-two days since I touched it. Do I even remember what the brass feels like?

It’s cold. Grandmother’s hands always grip the doorknob with such conviction. She crosses thresholds like a mare passing through a gate. But for me, the knob squeaks as it turns. The door groans.

“Stay, Tour.”

Sunlight glints off the captain’s armor. His radiance is an assault on my senses that is not muted by his black hair, amber eyes, or shadowed jaw.

“Captain Herron,” he says, unsmiling, but holding out his hand in introduction.

My stomach winds into knots at that gesture. His hand awaits, steady and gloved. I reach for it. Those liquor-colored eyes drop to assess my tremor, before he quickly clasps my hand in his, and returns his gaze to mine.

“Wish we were meeting under better circumstances, but an alarm has been raised.”

“An alarm,” I mutter, knitting my brows together.

Tour whines behind me, drawing the captain’s attention. I turn aside as he releases my hand, and gesture quickly into the hovel. As he passes me, the two guards in his company remain outside. Their curious gazes cross the threshold, peering into the dark and dusty room. To the back shelf littered with my father’s belongings.

“Your grandmother left before sunrise. She was spotted by one guard on night watch.”

“It’s not uncommon for her to go out so early. She hunts for our food.” I dry the sweat of my palms on my wool trousers.

Captain Herron’s eyes rake over me, probably trying to find a reason why a seemingly healthy man of my age cannot hunt for the family; why my grandmother still hunts at her age.

My bare chest and abdomen are unremarkable, and my arms are not as thickly muscled as his must be, judging by the fit of his armor. But I am not crippled as far as anyone can see.

Then his gaze flicks to my hands, prompting me to push them into my pockets.

“No one hunts in the Valley, though,” Captain Herron says, raising one dark brow. “Do you have any idea why she would have traveled beyond the First Gate?”

I sway, as if on hinges myself. “Wha—what? No. She wouldn’t. She knew—my father died on the mountain pass beyond that gate. She knows not to go there.”

The urge to run out of the hovel, to follow in her footsteps, competes with my instinct to hunker down and think why or where she would be going.

“Is it possible your father might have been carrying anything of importance with him on his last journey?” he asks.

Tour nudges my leg with his head and moves to sit between the guard captain and me. Herron narrows his eyes on my wolf-like companion.

“He’s very protective of you. He senses you’re not at ease. Do you have any reason to suspect your grandmother might be on a dangerous quest?”

“What—what a question. You’re the one saying an alarm has been raised and that my only living relative was seen wandering off toward the First Gate. Of course, I’m uneasy. Of course, I’m suspicious,” I say. “You—you’re the one with eyes on the roads and gates. What do you know? Did you see my grandmother fall or hear something stir in the Valley?”

“Lady Bratav went up to the Gate this morning. She has not returned but she was fully armed. I’m wondering what could have led her out there. Perhaps she had some secret hope that your father survived, or that something of his might be found there? I have no other observations to go on. Mere wariness.”

I glance toward the book on my bed and then back at the captain.

“My father went into the Valley on behalf of King Alezander, carrying nothing more than canisters of parchment, a box of quills, and jars of ink in his pack. He went to make a map and died on a crumbling cliff. We have had no hope that he survived, nor any reason to think there was any step he took worth following. No one hunts in the Valley—you said it yourself. It’s nothing more than wild land, claimed by dragons, and protected by the gods.”

“Protected?” A sardonic smirk crawls over Herron’s lips. “So you do believe the stories. Just as your father did.”

I snort. “They’re just stories. Agreeing that no mortal man could survive out there, makes room for the assumption that only the gods care about the Valley."

"The gods and the dragons," he says.

I don't mirror his smile. "The only reason my father even ventured there was because of the King’s superstitions. He died over a rumor.”

He shakes his head, his smile broadening. “I don’t believe that. It seems your grandmother doesn’t believe that either. She’s a sharp woman and a worthy war maiden. At her age, you purport she passed through the First Gate, broadsword in hand, at the hour of Linth, on the anniversary of your father’s death… to hunt for food?”

I swallow my response, glancing once more toward the book on my bed to avoid the captain’s eyes. This time, he tracks my gaze.

“Oh?” His boots clack against the pine-wood floor. He takes off his right glove and plucks the book from my mess of wool blankets.

“Please—please, be gentle. It’s very old.”

He thumbs it open gingerly, his smirk faltering. “It’s in another tongue. It’s Bra—”

“Bratavlan. Yes,” I say, kneading my hands.

“This was your father’s field book?”

I chuckle nervously. “No, no. Not a field book. Just a story.”

“The origin of mortal fertility. This is the Book of Juno.” He traces the written lines with his finger. “These are your father’s notes—you can read this.”

My back touches the cold wall as I try to steel myself. “I—I’m not fluent. Only parts. I still don’t know—”

Captain Herron moves to close the distance between us and Tour snarls. He looks down his long, straight nose at my dog and smirks again, stopping in his tracks.

“Bring the dog. We must go.”

“What? Where?” I reach for Tour and soothe him. “Please, give me back the book. I’m sure there’s been a mistake. My grandmother will return before dusk. You’ll see.”

Herron reaches the threshold and looks from the book in his hand to me. “Until your grandmother returns, this book belongs to the King of Vakhal. You are now under my charge. If she comes back, maybe lugging home a wyvern for the village’s dinner, then you can have your book back.”

“I can’t—Captain, stop.” I lunge, grabbing onto his steel-clad arm. His feet are planted on the other side of my hovel’s threshold, and now one of my own has stepped into the light that gilds his armor.

He locks eyes with me, his jaw tightening. My bare chest and shoulders are not as broad as his. My hands are unsteady and smooth, ignorant of labor, where his are callused and deft. The Book of Juno fits in his grip as if he were its original author.

He towers over me, god-like himself. His stature alone gives him allowance to command me, but it’s the look in his eyes that compels me to bend. As if his were the almighty’s hands, sent to pluck a divine book from the grimy grip of a child’s.

For most of my twenty-two years, I’ve fumbled through its pages, unable to write a single note of my own. Only through tedious practice of what knowledge my father passed to me, have I been able to understand it at all.

But Herron is not one of the gods. He does not speak or read their tongue. We both know my grandmother didn’t go up to the First Gate, and pass into the Valley at the hour of Linth on the anniversary of my father’s death… to hunt for food. But for answers.

Without me, this man will never grasp the breadth of the book of Juno’s secrets: the history of the Valley and the garden at its center, defended by the dragons. If I follow him from the hovel, conscripted into his service, I will be compelled to translate what I was meant to keep hidden. What my father died protecting.

“I can’t help you,” I say softly, releasing his arm but keeping my eyes on the book. I intertwine my fingers to keep them from shaking and he notices.

“You’re a man of Linth. Your father read and wrote in Bratavlan. This book,” he says, holding it up and blocking out the sunlight, “was on your pillow. Books filled with forgotten origin stories make strange bedfellows for men who never leave their houses.”

“I am studious, as my father was. I have no use of—”

“Of experience? Theory will only get you so far, Ramiel. Even your father knew that. What good is a young scholar who doesn’t care about the outside world, as it stands against creatures of desolation. The world as it was before the beasts came is over. Now the gods rage and dragon fire rampages through the Valley. This kingdom sits too close, with no escape of the beasts except through the Valley. Trade is failing. Crops are burned and cattle plucked from our small pastures by those creatures. Even men fall prey. We have to find a way forward, and the king—”

“The king,” I say, raking one of my hands through my disheveled brown hair. “The queen, you mean. She still has no heir.”

Herron’s jaw ticks.

“I’m right,” I say, lifting my chin. “Aren’t I? You’re after Juno’s Rod. The cattle and crops don’t matter as much if there’s no prince to claim them when his father’s dead.”

I feel pinned to the doorstep by his gaze, like a map to wall-paneling, unable to take a step in any direction. Tour is panting beside me, awaiting my next command. Herron’s eyes bore into me, as if he finds me more interesting than the book.

“You catch on quick. But your hands shake.” He lifts his shoulders. “Is that such a problem for you?”

“You want a map,” I scoff. “I can’t draw, and I don’t know where the Rod is—if it’s even real.”

“I don’t believe that, Ramiel. You’re one of the Bratavs. Your kind were bred to have unfaltering minds, not to be illustrators. What matters is you know how to read the land like your father did. You can even translate it, in the divine tongue that breathed the world into existence."

He doesn't need my response or reaction.

“You can dictate and interpret what you see. Someone else can draw for you. Someone else can pave the roads and slay the dragons. I just need you to tell us the story of the Valley, according to those who wrote this book. Your ancestors—they were the only ones who lived there before the dragons. Well, what if you could return to that place and help the kingdom? You’d be a hero.”

I shake my head. “What do you plan to do about my grandmother? She’s the only one I care about helping.”

Herron smirks again, tucking the holy, misunderstood Book of Juno under his arm and tilting his head to the side. “Move that other foot over the threshold and follow me to the garrison. You teach me this history, and I’ll show you the plans for our future.”