The Book of the Broken

[ChrisGibson]

TONIGHT THERE WILL BE NOTHING FROM THE BLOOD, BUT WE BEGIN A NICE BIG SIZZLING PORTION OF PART TWO OF THE BOOK OF THE BROKEN


CAIR DARONWY



“You are the Duke of Ondres,” Imogen pointed out three nights later over the music of the banquet. Directly south of your territory is the land of Sussail.”
“Our ancient ally.”
“Your ancient ally,” Imogen said.
Anson blinked at her.
“The history off the Sussail is different from that of the Westrians, though we are related. The Sussail have a higher concentration of Royan blood, and they have ties to the old empire, and to Armor across the sea. Generally they have been closely allied to the Dukes of Ondres.
“Idris has told me—”
“Idris has told you much.”
“Be quiet. He has told me the Duchy of Ondres actually begins less than a day east of Kingsboro. It extends north to Tuland Wood and east to the border of Senach. Here, tonight, dancing with the woman with the elaborate pile of hair who is laughing a bit too much, is Baron Melbyn of Tuland. That laughing woman is not his wife, but Lady Rosebrer, the daughter of Baroness Farran. Also important is Lord Byinton of Chassanith, old family, many ties to Chyr, old Royan blood and you have already met the Lord mayor, Fatgut.”
“I thought his name was—”
“His name is the right honorable lord mayor Robert Failgon, but you can see why they call him Fat Gut.”
At this point, cloaked in his dark red robe, Ohean came to them, joined by Idris, and beside them was a black robed man wearing a small black skullcap.
“Archmage Kyril,” Ohean presented him.
“He is the true mayor,” Imogen whispered, and Idris winked at her and then added, “Right, and let no one fool you.”
Kyril seemed grave the whole time he smiled, but bowed, took Anson’s hands and kissed them. “Your Grace, the King has been mocking me since he was a boy.” He looked to Ohean now and said, “Since they were both boys.”
“Mock?” Idris raised one eyebrow.
“And what have you been telling my little sister?” Anson said.
“Your little sister,” Idris said of the black haired young woman, “is a mighty strategist and a noble thinker.”
Anson looked from the dark, handsome king to his sister.
“What else do you think?” Anson said to Imogen.
“Let it be known by all you are here, and the Lord of Ondres. Then return to Ondres as soon as possible. Mobilize your army.”
“Mobilize.”
“There is talk of the new king across the sea, and of war to come,” Kyril said. “What is more, because of the will of your father, you have been given a fair position in Westrial, and no doubt the King may suspect his most powerful lords. It is no secret he has long suspected you.”
When Anson looked on the Archmage, the old man said, “Your Grace, I was surprised you came out of Kingsboro in the open. Many of us suspected you would immediately raise an army down south. Already the king is rumored to have made allegiance with Sussail. You must make your Duchy strong.”
“You say,” Anson said, “that my brother suspects me.”
“And I believe you know that I am right,” the Archmage said.
“But if I mobilize he would suspect me even more.”
“Suspicion is suspicion,” the Archmage said, “and if you are suspected, you might as well be ready.”
Imogen and King Idris nodded, and Ohean said, “If Cedd were to become suspicious, if he were to ally with Sussail, then Essail would not help us. Morgellyn and her husband would certainly choose Cedd over Anson.”
“Let us not speak of these things,” Anson shook his head. “They have not happened.”
“But we must speak of them,” Ohean differed. We cannot ignore them because we do not wish for them to be true.”
“Well, then what would you do?” Anson said.
Ohean frowned, and he fixed his staff firmly before him, leaning on it.
“Ondres is a city and not a nation, and as you say, none of this has happened. You have no sisters to marry off. You cannot and would not marry off Imogen. The Rootless Isle would assist you. Chyr and Rheged,” he said, looking to his cousin, “will aid you. The northwest part of Westrial would come to you. Only you have to make their support known without it being known. You must let their allegiance to you be shown without it being shown.”
“Give Cedd no cause for war,” Idris agreed.
“But,” Archmage Kyril said, “Give yourself every protection against it.”
Ohean said, “There is a saying, from the Yellow Books, it is one on prognostication.”
“The telling of the future?” Imogen began.
“Yes. It says, roughly, that to see ahead is like any other kind of vision. Possessing vision does not mean you have the absolute ability to see. Some have better sight, and then, if there is a hill before you, you cannot see over it. You cannot see the back of your head. You can see in many directions. According to the Yellow Book the way that is the most predicatable, the safest, the most foreseen is the road to stagnation. The road than can be seen the clearest is the one to be avoided, and since we have already seen the road to Ondres, I say we take another one.”
“To the Rootless Isle,” Anson said.
Ohean nodded. “We will take the inner road. And because Kyril is here, maybe he will help with the old riddle, the song as you called it.”
“Pol’s song.”
“I will bring Pol here,” Anson said.
“What song are you speaking of?” Kyril asked Ohean and Idris said, “We talk of strategies and you talk of singing. You truly are a wizard.”
But when Pol had come, and Austin followed, he said, “The old song? The one I sang all the time.”
“Truly I never heard you sing it,” Ohean said, “and I wonder if that was not meant.”
“If anything is meant,” Pol wondered, “if you believe in that kind of thing.”
“Save philosophical debates about belief for later, friend Pol,” Ohean said, “and give us the song.”
“My mother taught it to me,” Pol said. He did not sing, but recited:

First was the mage
Who moved from age to age
And second was his hero strong

Third was the starry maid,
who lived in trees,
whose wood would never die
Seven came down
Oh, and seven came down

Four is for the lady who fits inside
men’s hands
Who gave up arms and legs to
be an arm again
And Seven came down
Oh, and seven came down

Five alive, the Great old Man,
the mighty Oaken Tree
Mighty rash, who bore the Ash,
and Ash and onto Thee
Seven came down
Oh, and seven came down

They say a man gave up his
land to be the Woman’s Key!
Oh! And Seven came down
Oh, and Seven came down

“The Seven!” Kyril exclaimed.
“Ohean said that before,” Anson said, “but he did not explain what that meant.”
“Is it holy?” Imogen said. “Like the Gods?”
“Not quite like the Gods,” Kyril said.
“And not a folk song, I’m guessing?” Pol said.
“No,” Kyril shook his head with a small smile, “save it is a song of the oldest folk of all. But if we are to speak of such things, let us not do it here, but in the House of Varayan where there are no voices to listen. The night draws on,” Kyril said, “Let us move now.”
As the moved down the streets, Anson could see the spires of the Gadaral of Varayan rising in the night. Anton had commented on them saying they looked nothing like any Gadaral he’d ever seen. Whereas most minsters Anson knew were long with towers toward the faces this one was circular with one high ascending tower in the center and about it, the smaller chapels rising to make four great towers and then, between them, another four, smaller, all of them with bulbous onion domes colorful in the day and impressive in the night. The eyes was drawn to it fro macros the skyline and Anson said to the Archmage, “It makes me feel sacred in a way that no house of worship ever has.
“It is the Gadaral of the Five Flames, or the House of worship of Holy Varayan,” Kyril said.
They took the Raynan Road from the palace straight into Great Square where the bulk of the Gadaral watched over the mi nthe night. The front of it was two very long staircases going from north to south and meeting in the great round tower that was chapel. But they bypassed these and walking the length of it, came to a doorway in the side. Anson was surprised when the Archmage merely touched it and the door opened.
“It isn’t locked?”
“It’s never locked,” Kyril said. “Who would rob our Gadaral?”
Anson could think of several answers to this, but Kyril, without minding much, took up up long stairs into an elaborate chapel and then right past it while Anson spared just a moment to see the sumptuous ikons, the glittering walls and burning candles. They went down a very long open hall looking out onto the night with few torches burning in it and, at last, Kyril turned to his right and Anson followed.
He nearly stumbled over the old mage, who had gone face down upon entering, and then knelt, crossing himself by the elements and rose to dip his fingers in holy water.
Here, in a way, never seen in Kingsboro, was a glittering altar screen embossed with the shining images of Annatar, Amana and Addiwak, and before them burned five great lanterns, behind them Anson could see the light of glittering lanterns, but as he looked up and up spirialing into blackness he saw the hollow inside of the highest tower of this, the central nave of the Gadaral.


“You have heard how the Gods came often to earth in many forms.”
“The Avayan,” Idris and Anson said together.
“They came as heroes and wizards and teachers, yes,” Kyril said. “Varayan himself had ten incarnations. But… and I do not wish to dwell on this, to make things more complicated, each of those incarnations was distinct. It was not like putting on wardrobe changes. Or if it was, each wardrobe change produced a distinctly new person.”
“So that…. Ahnar is not the same as the Ard,” Imogen said, “though they both share the nature of Varayan.”
“Yes, Princess,” Kyril nodded. “Precisely.
“Well, some of the mightiest of the Avayan are the Seven. They came into the world around the time of the Great Flood, when the world was nearly lost to evil. The Seven decided to remain in the world always, though they chose it in seven different ways. Some simply lived on as they were, some lived between the worlds, some became other things.”
“What does that mean?” Pol interrupted.
“They put their power into other things. They became… sources, objects. It is all very strange. The most prominent of them chose to be born always human, or more or less human, which necessitated coming back into the world again and again.”
“First was the mage
Who moved from age to age,”
Austin said.
Kyril nodded.
Austin said, “the mage is first, then his hero strong. The third is the starry maid who lived in trees. Then the fourth is the lady who fits inside men’s hands—maybe she became one of the objects, whatever that means. The fifth would be the Great Old Man and the sixth is the man who gave up his land to be the Woman’s Key. But who is the seventh?”
“I always though the seventh was the woman’s key, and the sixth was the man,” Pol said.
“No, Pol,” Austin said, quietly. “that’s not it. That’s not what’s going on in the song. That is all a description of the sixth.”
Pol’s eyes widened, but he knew not what to say, and Kyril said, “You are right, young friend. Your friend has most of the song, but not all of it, for the whole song was never taught to him, perhaps on purpose. I believe the song has a geasa on it.”
“A what?” Austin began.
“It’s a type of a spell,” Imogen said. “Some magic woven into its magic to prevent certain things from happening. In this case,” Princess decided, “comprehension.”
“Yes,” Kyril said. “Or how else would Ohean not know it?”
“There are many things I do not know,” Ohean said. “Like the story of Sevard. Until now.”
“True,” Kyril said, “but you did not even hear it sung around you. I believe in a way the song may have been hiding itself from you, for doubtless, you are the first. The mage who moves from age to age.”
“And then I—” Anson began, but then he stopped.
“My prince,” Kyril said, “if Ohean is the mage there is no reason you are not the Hero Strong. The entire song, you shall now hear:

First was the mage
Who moved from age to age
And second was his hero strong

Third was the starry maid,
who lived in trees,
whose wood would never die
Seven came down
Oh, and seven came down

Four is for the lady who fits inside
men’s hands
Who gave up arms and legs to
be an arm again
And Seven came down
Oh, and seven came down

Five alive, the Great old Man,
the mighty Oaken Tree
Mighty rash, who bore the Ash,
and Ash and onto Thee
Seven came down
Oh, and seven came down

They say a man gave up his
land to be the Woman’s Key!
Oh! And Seven came down
Oh, and Seven came down
Of all of them I’ve spoken
Except the one who’s broken.”

Ohean nodded his head, as if he was waiting for something, and Kyril nodded as well.
“My Prince,” he said to Anson, “I have something for your eyes alone, if the King and the Lord Ohean do not mind.”
But Ohean was already leading them all outside, and Kyril said, “I will return him to you in a moment.”
Alone with Kyril in the silent nave, Anson looked on the rich and glittering space of the cathedral nave, while large was not as large as Kingsboro Abbey because its floor plan was not open. Instead he watched while Kyril knelt before the silver altar and ran his fingers over the ribbing, for it was made of what seemed many intricate, rounded bars, but suddenly, Kyril grunted, “Thirty seven,” bit his lip and tugged and one of the bars came out to instantly be replaced by one which ahd been repressed behind it.
“Yes,” he said, and as the old man rose, giving himself leverage with the altar rail, and bowed before the image of Varayan, he handed the bar to Anson who murmured, “A sword sheath.”
The scabbard was weighty and as they stood before the lit altar, Kyril said, “This is the scabbard to Callasyl, one of the Three Swords made from time out of mind.”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“Of course you haven’t,” Kyril said, “for though you are Royan, you were raised Sendic. The Kings of Locress held onto this until Avred Oss, and though some tales say that he tossed it into a lake, some say he tossed it into the sea and still, some say it was stolen after his death and disappeared among the Sendics. Since then it has faded from history, and from our lore.
“But then Ohean told me of the sword he had come seeking for you, the Sword of this man called Sevard, and that it was of great power, great magic, and that it was not of Sendic origin, but rather of Royan.”
“And on that, you wondered if this,” Anson touched the sword at his side, “might be the sword Callasyl?”
It seemed to make littler difference. After all, beneath the magic of the stories, a sword was only required to have good heft in the hand and cut what it must. The origins did not matter. But Kyril’s expression did not change.
“The Lady of the Isle in those days was Morgan, sister of Avred Oss. She had taken this scabbard from him and tried to take the sword, for she had heard it would be lost and wanted it in her keeping to pass onto other kings. She believed there would never be a King over all the Ossar again if the sword was lost. Coincidence or no, she was right. But Morgan spoke of two other swords, and that one day, Callasyl would be given to a prince of the two bloods who would come as Lord of Ondres, and Akkrabeth would be at his side, and that once given to him, that sword would never be lost again.”
“And you believe that I am this prince?” Anson said.
“My lord, I do.”




In their chambers, Ohean took the sword in his hands and drew it out of Sevard’s scabbard, slowly, the light of the lamps catching on the blade. Anson could see the sword was made of a material like grey and silver waves upon waves, and etched up and down it, in a long thin hand, where words he could not say.
“When I knew it was Royan, I hoped, but did not dare to say,” Ohean murmured.
“This is the sword Callasyl, which even in the Towers and the Rootless Isle, the word is that it is lost.”
Even as he gazed on the blade he handed it reverently to Anson.
“It was forged in the morning of the world. This is the sword that slew Dragon Imbeth, and its daughter sword is Callasyll, the Reaver, made from one of Embeth’s teeth, its scabbard from Imbeth’s very flesh. The last sword was Taquatal, made from the spikes of Imbeth in the time of the Devastation. Those three swords were born by Corum and by Calum and their descendants though, in the days of the Empire, they were separated.”
“What became of them?”
“They were apportioned among the scions of Corum and Calum. Callasyl remaining in the hands of the Kings of Locress, never to depart for the West, but in the those first days in the Rufanians came, the Royan who departed for the West, never to be conquered or joined either to the Rufanian or to the Sendic, took the other swords. Reaver passed into the hands of the Queens of Chyr while Taquatal passed into the Kings of Rheged. All three swords are lost now. Well,” Ohean corrected himself, “the other two.”
“Kyril said all three would come to me,” Anson murmured as he sheathed the sword and the brilliance of the blade disappeared into the only slightly lesser brilliance of the patterned sheath of Taquatal. “That is, if I were to become king,” he chuckled.
“Do not pretend to laugh it off,” Ohean said. “Many times have men found themselves walking in a time of legend, and well we may be walking in it again. The prophets of the Zahem have proclaimed a great day.”
“I would not put much store in the Zahem or their prophets,” Anson said.
“Then put your store in me,” Ohean said.
When he had spoken so, Anson became serious as well and said, “But of course.”
Anson’s eyes fell on Ohean and they rested on him for some time.
“I believe in the song, Ohean,” Anson said. “In everything Kyril said. “If any of this matters,” Anson gestured to the sword, “then we need to find out who the other five are, and especially the seventh.”
“We should go to the Rootless Isle.”
But Ohean shook his head.
“When the mages and the enchantresses split in two, they divided their magical lore as well, that no one might, attacking them, possess the whole of it. The women and men go back and forth, but I believe if I never learned about the Seven in all my childhood, then it is the Hidden Tower to which we must travel.”
“Will they allow us all entrance, I wonder,” Anson said.
Anson looked over Ohean for a long time, but his companion did not speak right away.
“You want to know what I am thinking,” Ohean said. “I am thinking all that Kyril has done this night, and all the prophecies whispered to you for the first time are only the seeds before some great matter, unseen and yet undone, and we should not consider anything, no matter how grand, that is spoken of you, or of this city. What remains for us is to look at the present and at the matters now arising, and to wait in readiness. We must journey to the south, but the next storm, as far as I can see, blows in the North.”


MORE ON SUNDAY!

 

[CharmedFan28]

That was a great portion and an excellent start to part 2! So much going on as usual but I am enjoying it. All these revelations especially about Anson are very interesting to read. I look forward to more soon!

 

[ChrisGibson]

Things that were pretty dormant before are starting to heat up for sure. Part two has started with a bang, and it's about to keep banging away... Banging away? Oh, my!

 

[ChrisGibson]

THE WESTERN FENS




“Myrne!” Wolf cried as her horse misstepped and, with a great neigh, fell neck deep into the water of the fens while Myrne’s head disappeared beneath the water.
“Myrne! Wolf cried again, dismounting.
Myrne came up out of the water, soaked, weeds in her hair, floating on her back, and Wolf, jumping into the water, dragged her onto, if not shore, a shallower spot in the reeds.
“Myrne!” he cried. “Speak to me.”
Black hair plastered to her white face, she did not open her eyes, but when he pressed on her chest and she coughed, Myrne said, “Damn these marshes.”
“Gods!” Wolf picked her up and pulled her to him. “Gods, you’re alive!”
“So, I am,” Myrne said, as her horse neighed. “But get Snowmane back on shore. If his leg is alright.”
Myrne coughed again. “Is it?”
Wolf took off his soaked cape, heavy and smelling of wet fur, and he and Myrne tugged at the horse. Snowmane seemed to resist for a time, but came back onto the shore screaming in pain.
“It was by my magic he even got to shore.” Myrne said.
Crazed with pain, the horse screamed every time it landed on its leg, and almost danced back into the water. As Myrne moved back from the horse and Wolf reached for his dagger, suddenly something whistled past them and stuck fast in Snowmane’s neck. The horse neighed crazily again, and then collapsed on its side as Myrne called out its name.
But now they all saw a small boat sailing over the more open water, and it found the firm, higher land Wolf could not. Out of it came a brown and bent old woman, so ancient her nose touched her chin.
“’El be fine,” she said, coming to the horse. “But ‘el be sleepin’ for a wul till I get some plank and bandage for ‘im.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Wolf said, sounding uncertain.
“Yer a yung fine piece o’man you are,” she assessed, winking and grabbing Wolf’s backside, “Twill be a treat for me if you ride back to the stead.”
“Stay with Snowmane,” Wolf said to Myrne, feeling like an idiot as he climbed onto the raft with the old woman. The crone winked at the wet Myrne and chucked Wolf under his chin. As he smiled foolishnly at Myrne, she watched him and the old woman paddle away to her house in the swamp, leaving her alone..
If the leg could be bound, and if Myrne could get a good night’s sleep, then she could perform a spell powerful enough. And draining enough to heal Snowmane.
As they left, Myrne knew they were going to get bindings for Snowmane, but she thought of old fairy tales where strange hags demanded one night of love from a young man for their favors and part of her imagined Wolf sleeping with the hag. She knew she should laugh, but as she coughed up water, Myrne found the idea of Wolf sleeping with anyone distinctly unfunny.




If Myrne had known that Bessie had a very pretty granddaughter named Sanelin, she might have worried more about the hour Wolf spent away from her. The girl was wheat haired and blue eyed, and she came back in the barge with Wolf and Bessie, and helped her grandmother bandage Snowmane. Later that night, after a lentil stew and sweet small beer, Sanelin came to sit by Myrne while old Bessie shared her long pipe with Wolf.
“Are you alright?” Sanelin looked down on her, touching her hair. “Anything on your mind?”
“Only getting to Saint Clew,” Myrne said. “Ah, and poor Wolf’s face when Bessie grabbed his backside!”
“Gran is an old cat, she is,” Sanelin said. “Still, you can’t blame her.”
“What are you getting at?” Myrne said, sharply.
“There it is!” Sanelin laughed.
“You’re too cruel,” Myrne said.
“Wolf is a lovely looking man is all I’m saying.”
“I know exactly what Wolf looks like, and I’m not so bad myself.”
“In fact you might make a lovely couple.”
“I didn’t say all that.”
“And he was so worried for you when you fell in the water.”
“Wolf is a gentleman,” Myrne said. “He’d feel the same way if you or Bessie fell in a marsh too.”
Sanelin smiled to herself and said, “No, dear Myrne, I do not think that is so.”

“Well, you un been trav’lin for somethin’ long,” the old woman said, “an I heard tell from friends down up in Midtomlin way you stayed near ‘em for a few nights, so I knew oo you were. Why the fens I wonder at first? Then says I to myself, it’s the quickenest way, Also the the way un would trabble if ‘ey ‘idn’t wanno be seen.”
“And you would be right enough,” Myrne said. She was wrapped in a great blanket that smelled of oats, and quite warm before the woman’s fire. Snowmane was outside, his leg bound, eating hot mash and on his way to sleep.
“We’re on our way to Ambridge and trying to get there as soon as possible,” Wolf said.
“Well, you’re almost there,” Bessie said, “Fact you’re three days from it.”
“Actually we are on our way to Saint Clew.”
“Ah, the Blessed Abbey in Durham,” Bessie said. “Good folks. They know little of the old gods, but their new ways are good. Saint Clew be even closer.”
“We can travel out alongside the water in a few mornings,” Wolf said. “I see we’re coming to the end of the fens.”
“I got one better,” Bessie said. “My un nephew, Tim drives a ferry boat to market, and‘ll take you up if you ask him.”
“We’ll compensate him well,” Myrne said.
“Bless you, girl,” the old woman closed a leathery, affectionate claw over Myrne’s hand. “You have something of the old witch women about ye. And I sense there be a true reason for yer coming. Der’ll be no price saving ye remember old Bessie of Weedlyn House and her kin.”





AMBRIDGE




He always remembered her voice, sweet in his ears, and sweet in its sincerity, so different from the voice of every woman he had known. When Odo had gone into the White Order and the monastery doors had closed on him, he had not missed the court intrigues, and now that his brother was king and he often stood at his side, Odo was glad to be away from this on this journey across the channel to the lands of Rufus’s kinsman, Edmund.
As the ship with the banners of Daumany, the great Eternal Sun, sailed into the harbor and was roped to the quay, Odo acknowledged that Ambridge was a fair city, but he did not long to be here. He could not, in fact, wait to visit Saint Clew and finally rest in the only place a monk should be.
“I am not an ambassador,” Odo said to himself.
“My Lord?” his servant Jervais said, beside him.
“It is nothing,” Odo said. Then. “Would you fetch the bags?”
But they wanted him to say things like that and, truthfully, as a member of the royal family and the son of a high blooded duke, he had grown up expecting service. It was in the monastery that he had been trained to serve, and now he found himself losing that training, falling out of touch with that humility, becoming the worst person he could be, and not the best.
There was a litter waiting for, “My lord the Abbot of Saint Fundagast.” Odo climbed into it and experienced the odd sensation of being carried, swinging through the noisy Port Gate thronged with shouting vendors, into the city of Ambridge. Now and again, from behind the garish gold curtain, he would peek out and see the merchants and hawkers, those on business, bustling about like rats, the high tenements over shops, the distant town houses and, eventually, the walls and towers of the palace which rose at the head of the city, out of the very midst of it with little space between the royal lands and the rest of the city.
Odo was carried through the outer bailey to the inner, and then lowered as he was presented to King Edmund and the Queen.
The Queen was beautiful but so obviously wicked. She should have been wearing devil horns, and as Odo bowed after she had bowed, he bowed also to Edmund, who next came and embraced him. It was a strange sensation, for Odo marveled, “He did not seem this foul in Daumany.”
Or perhaps Odo’s senses were heightened here, where he was abroad in a land not his own.
“And here is my gracious father,” Queen Edith bowed, speaking the Dauman language with an accent, as she gestured to Ulfin, “and my brother, the Lord Allyn.”
“Everyone has heard of Allyn Baldwin,” Odo bowed courteously.
Allyn Baldwain was tall and well formed, wearing hose in the style of a young dandy that displayed his fine long thighs, and a bow was over his shoulder. Fair haired, pale skinned, fair faced he was, more like an Ayl than a Hale as he took Odo’s hand warmly and said, “Welcome, Lord Abbot. I trust you have heard of our abbey of Saint Clew and will be making a journey soon enough.”
Odo put his fingers together in a triangle and bowed, “I have every plan to pay homage to the Saint’s remains before returning home.”
“Ah!” Edmund cried, clapping Odo on the back,”but there will be no talk of returning home today. Only feasting, and talk of more union between Daumany and the North.”


“Talk of union between Daumany and the North!” Allyn raged.
“Keep your voice down,” his sister commanded from where she sat in her chambers.
“You know why he talks of union?” Allyn’s face was no longer pleasant, but red and slightly twisted by rage.
“There is nothing that has come to your mind that did not come to mine long ago,” Edith said.
“Give him a child!”
“Excuse me?” she sat up.
“Give him a child, a Baldwin heir.”
“Any child I give him would be a Wulfstan heir, for Wulfstan he is… though he no longer uses that name. And I am sure you know he has not slept in my bed in years.”
“Bring him back then.”
“I will not beg my husband to mount me. Especially when he is so eager to mount everyone else.”
“Then,” Allyn looked almost mad as his eyes darted about. “Get pregnant by someone else.”
Edith barked out a laugh.
“And be burnt at the stake for adultery?”
“He wouldn’t dare,” Allyn said. “And what is more, what would he say? Would he tell the people he has refused to lay with is own wife?”
“I will not chance that,.” Edith said. “For today, and until I say otherwise, Edmund is still very much alive.”
“And when he dies?”
Edith opened her mouth to reply, but then she tilted her head and said to Allyn, “What do you want?”
“I’ll tell you what I don’t want? I don’t want that monk’s brother to be the emperor ruling Daumany, Hale, North Hale and Inglad, which is what is about to happen.”
But Edith’s face was the same. She was not alarmed at all.
“I think,” she began, “what you want is for me to convince Edmund to make you his heir, and—” she said when Allyn opened his mouth, “I do not know how you would think that is possible. I am already working on one thing—”
“Killing Hilda!”
“Shut your mouth!” Edith snapped.
“I am working on one thing,” she said in measured tones, again, “and then I will work on another. It would be ridiculous to think that Edmund would ever appoint you king, and it is obvious Rufus thinks to sail across the sea and steal these three kingdoms. But if we can begin to move the councils to our side, and the abbeys, and if Father outlives Edmund and is still Earl, or if you are the new Earl of North Hale, there is no reason you should not be appointed king.”
“What of the Earl of Herreboro?”
“Oh,” Edith said, “leave him to me.”

NEXT POSTING WILL BE FROM THE BLOOD

 

[CharmedFan28]

That was a great portion with some excellent writing! This story seems to get more and more characters, it’s hard to keep track sometimes but I am enjoying it. I hope you are having a nice night and I look forward to getting back to The Blood.

 

[ChrisGibson]

Yes, you're right. Well, I told you there would be more characters! I feel like in print it will be easier to get a hold of because you can literally get a hold of it. But that is some way off. For now, just take it as a soap opera with a bunch of plotlines you can jump into.

 

[ChrisGibson]

Seventeen


There was, from ancient times, the oldest law and the law older still. The oldest law was simply, “Abide.” The law older still was like unto it, opposite and it was that law which set all into life: “Move”.

- The Book of the Broken






KINGSBORO



“My Lord, this is my new valet, Teryn Wesley.”
Teryn genuflected and kissed the King’s hand.
“Teryn, Rise.”
“My thanks, Grace.”
“How do you find Kingsboro?”
“It is lovely your Grace.”
“And your service?”
“More than I dreamed.”
“I will be some time with Sir Anthony. You must be wearied,” Cedd said. “Levin is outside the door. He will lead you to the baths, and you can refresh yourself for the evening meal.”
Cedd bowed and Teryn bowed as well, walking backward until the door opened, and then the door closed at his exit.
“Exquisite,” Cedd commented. “And with more poise than I had at his age, and I the son of a king.
“He is a rare talent,” Anthony said.
“Should I be envious?”
“What?” then, “No. He is a boy! I am home for you.”
“Ah, but when you were not home…”
“Cedd,” Anthony said, his voice changing, “do not sound like a jealous wife. The boy is smart and fair and if you want to know anything about our relationship I would appreciate you simply asking.”
Cedd shook his head.
“No,” the King said, “you are right. I am sounding like a scold, and you are right, I do not need to know what passed between you and the boy. I do need to know if you will come to me tonight.”
“Gods, yes!” Anthony said. “It’s all I’ve thought of since seeing you.”
Cedd nodded. “You need to let the boy know how it is, then. There is love in his eyes.”
“He knows,” Anthony said.
“I hope he does. I am not afraid for my sake, but we’ve both been young men who…” Cedd shook his head. “Make sure he knows.”
Anthony’s face changed.
“Do you really think him fair?”
“Would anyone not? Look at him. Golden skin, rosy cheeks, slate blue eyes. Young, in command of himself.”
“Would you like him?” Anthony said.
“You cannot pimp your valet to the King.”
“He would be honored.”
“He would feel forced. No,” Cedd said.
“But what I asked is would you like him?”
“We will leave off this discussion for now and turn to the girl. The Princess Isobel.”
“I think she will make a good Queen,” Anthony said, dropping his old line of questioning.
“I think she is an honest and noble girl,” Cedd said. “There was love in her eyes too. I think I could love her. I think I could be honest with her. Too often have I thought of women as being like my sisters; Morgellyn, a scheming witch, or Hilda with nothing between her legs and a heart for God or like Imogen, just a girl. This Isobel is different and noble and her blood is old and she is not to be trifled with. Even if she was as wicked as my sister I would be careful around her, but she deserves a man who can love or at least be honest with her. I do not feel entirely right about marrying her.”
“Meet with her, then,” Anthony said.
“And what? Tell her all my secrets. All of our secrets?”
“Plumb her. Test her wisdom. Be her friend. See what happens.”
Cedd nodded grimly.
“I would head north,” he said, “but I cannot leave my new wife alone, not after she has traveled here for me.”
“Why are you heading north? Or, why would you if you could?”
“Because,” Cedd cleared his throat, “it appears my sister Imogen is not such a girl as I thought, or rather she simply wishes to spite me. She is in Rheged with Anson, in the court of King Idris.”
Anthony frowned at this.
“And you would bring her back?”
“No,” Cedd said in irritation. “I would go to her wedding.”
“Wed—”
“I have received a letter from Princess Sayaana in Cair Daronwy. It appears that, with Anson standing as Duke of Ondres and closest of kin to oversee the contract, King Idris is wedding Isobel and making her his Queen.”


THE WESTERN FENS







Tim was a man of few words who brought them quietly up the river for the better part of six days. Myrne decided she would earn her keep as best she could while they sailed up the Ames. To Wolf’s surprise she could catch, clean and gut fish and Sanelin was the best cook in the southern kingdoms. He did not say this because he sensed Myrne would not appreciate that. In the mornings, Myrne rolled up her sleeves, and with soap stone and water, scrubbed clothes, then hung them to dry from the edge of the boat.
“There’s some’ ut bout a lady who can work,’ Tim said, “and you can jus’ look at’er and tell she’s a lady.”
Wolf nodded. That you could, and he wished to work beside her. The evenings where, at the sunset, she had him preparing the cakes for supper, were pleasant, and her bossing him about was a strange music to her ears.
“Mind you, don’t burn the corn cakes again,” she said. “The first time was one thing, but now you need to pay attention.”
“Yes, love,” he said.
“Whaddit you—?” she began.
“Yes, Myrne,” Wolf said.








EREK





Erek Skabelund remembered an early morning like this one, the first time he had been sent to find a Prophet, this very boy whom he had greeted with the death of Zakil. That motning, years ago, tt had still been dark, he felt Austin’s hands in his boxers, stroking him, making him bigger. Austin moved under the sheets. Half awake, he let Austin turn him over and his eyes watering, he felt Austin inside of him, Austin’s mouth on his neck, Austin’s thighs bunched against his, Austin, thrusting, coming.
Austin held him and Erek had always assumed he would be the one to hold Austin, to make Austin secure.
“Austin?”
“Huh?
“Nothing.” Erek said.
They were drifting off to sleep when there was a sharp rap at the door. The two of them looked at each other, and then Austin slid out of the bed, and tipped across the floor, slipping into the closet and closing the door.
Erek cleared his throat before calling: “Just a moment.”
He pulled his dressing gown on and answered the door.
“Brother Allman.”
“You have been chosen,” Allman said without introduction. “We will be traveling to find the newborn Prophet.”
Erek’s mouth was half open in a astoundment, and now Allman said, “I am on my way to find Austin Buwa. The Council wants him to go too.”
“Why?” Erek began. Then he said “I will tell him. I will see him soon.”
“Why, I cannot say. I believe it is because he is from a noble family outside of Zahem. If you can tell him, then it relieves me of a responsibility, thank you much, Brother.”
Allman nodded, smiled, and left the room, closing the door behind him. When a few moments had passed, the closet door opened, and Austin stuck out his head.
Erek turned to him and smiled.
“It would seem we’re going on a journey.”


Allman had fallen asleep, and Skabeland and Austin sat on either side of the fire warming their hands when Erek said, “Rulon is a prophet. A false prophet. He is the head of the Rebels who live in Long Lake.”
“Rebels?”
“He is not the only one, either,” Erek said. “There are the Rebels of the Badlands, and those of East Daho as well. There are many small groups, but those are the largest. Right now, Rulon is the most famous.”
Austin nodded, and as the flames changed color, painting Erek’s smooth face gold, then red, then emersing it in shadow, he contemplated not saying anything, but finally he said, “Erek, I don’t know what a Rebel is.”
Erek looked at him strangely and then said, “Oh. Well, I don’t suppose they exist in Westrial, or that you would hear about them. We don’t really like to talk about them in Zahem either. It all comes down to who is the true Prophet, who has the right to rule.”
“But the true prophet is in Nava.”
“Exactly,” Erek said, “but not everyone feels that way.”
Austin could tell that Erek did not wish to go on, but Austin needed him to. Rather than pester him, he simply sat and waited for Erek to continue speaking. At last he did.
“Of course you know how when the Prophet Joses was killed, most of the Zahem followed Yahn out of Westrial, into the Wilderness, Zahem. Some, however, who are separate from us and live in Solahn and Sussail, followed Joses’s son and his wife and made their own temple, though they built only one. They resisted one of the last of the revelations Joses had, and some say we should have too. In that revelation he declared that God had once been a man, like us, but that he had become God by having several wives at once, Heavenly marriage, and that this was the highest degree of living.”
“I always thought it was done because our ancestors—I mean the people of Hale—did it.”
“No,” Erek shook his head. “Joses had several wives, though we do not know their names, but Yahn took fifty-five. He preached the adding of wives and we all did it, in the Temple itself, and then in all of our temples, the multiple marriages were performed. It was the highest part of our religion for a long time. Then five hundred years ago it stopped.”
A strange feeling passed over Austin. He had always heard whispers, jokes, but not believed them. Now no one else less than Erek spoke of it.
“Why did it stop?” he said.
“Because God demanded it stop,” Erek said, shortly, his voice filled with more force that he’d intended.
“But the Rebels did not believe this,” Erek continued after a time.
“We had been paying taxes to, or fighting, the Solahni to the south for years, and a new king came to the throne. He offered to sell us, at great price, our land and the decision to acknowledge us an independent nation, to begin trade with us if we would abandon plural marriage. This king’s mother was of the other Zahem, descended from Joses’s son. And after all, only high ups could practice Heavenly Marriage anyway. It had been a stain on many Zahem who lived outside of our lands. Because of many of the things Prophets had said about the Royan, it also meant we had no allies. So we gave up many old teachings and we gave up Heavenly Marriage. The Rebels said the Prophet had capitulated to convenience and the words of heathens. From then on, many of the old, leading priestly families, and the families of councilors departed to establish their own rival Navas. Now that we had peace from the rest of the world, we began to have internal war.”
Austin had become fascinated now, and Erek was increasingly excited over his own story..
“Jayvan was the Prophet who declared that Plural Marriage was over and downplayed the curse of the Royan. He said he and the Elders consulted God and God told them this, and I believe it. His three successors remade the religion, but still wars arose. The Prophets did not lead armies. Generals did, but they needed someone to follow and so something new rose up, the Priesthood.”
“But I thought we all had the priesthood,” Austin said. “I remember the Anointing.”
“Yes,” Erek said, “but you know some people are high priests. It’s a title for certain men of exalted degree. Many of the Council have it. But in Jayvon’s day there was one priest who was also a general, Hyrum, and he began to take on much of the power of a general and king. This freed the Prophet to be a spiritual head. Among the Rebels, the Prophet is Priest and King and so were Joses and Yahn, but with us that is not necessarily he case. The Prophet guides the people and declares what is. He receives revelation. The High Priests, for after Hyrum, this title was reserved to his children and certain officers, oversee the temple rituals, but when the Prophet cannot rule like a king, when he is young or too old, or incapacitated, then it is the High Priest who rules.”
To Austin, who had seen very little of life in Zahem, but much of life in a royal court, it seemed like the High Priest and the Prophet would do an endless dance of power, one about the other, no matter how holy both might be. He did not say this. He was weary. He went to sleep.

Two days later they entered a green valley centered by a deep river, and it was filled with the hustle and bustle of cities.
“We are close to Solahn now,” Erek said. “This is a whole different world.”
By evening they were riding into a town and making reservations at an inn, but as they headed out, Allman pointed up to a hill and said, “Up there is his family. Up there is his house.”
And Erek did not have to explain to Austin that what Allman meant was the home of the Prophet Reborn.


MORE NEXT WEEK

 

[CharmedFan28]

Good to get back to this story! I am enjoying the ride of this story and the journey’s both mental and physical that the characters are taking. Great writing and I look forward to more next week!

 

[ChrisGibson]

I really appreciate that comment. Thank you.

 

[ChrisGibson]

CONCLUSION OF CHAPTER SEVENTEEN


There was, from ancient times, the oldest law and the law older still. The oldest law was simply, “Abide.” The law older still was like unto it, opposite and it was that law which set all into life: “Move”.

- The Book of the Broken



KINGSBORO



Isobel rose from her prayers before the house altar she’d set up in her room. She bowed to the image of the goddess Addiwak, and stood a little longer in her presence before straightening her gowns, taking the stick of incense and waving around the space before the goddess and between the two great candles, and then blowing them out, offering a little saliva to the altar, and crushing the incense out in it.
She lay the stick down and turned to leave the room.
Outside of it Teryn was taking notes, and he looked up at her.
“Your Grace,” he said.
“Do you know if the King is available?” Isobel said.
“I actually do not,” Teryn said, smiling up at her and rising, realizing it was his place to rise before the woman who would be the Queen of Westrial.
“Well, then let’s suppose that he is,” Isobel held out her hand to Teryn.
“Lady?”
“We are going to him,” Isobel said. “We are going right now.”
They passed out of her chambers, through the corridors of East Tower, and then through the sunlit gallery that led to the King’s offices. Teryn was surprised that a woman who had been here only as long as he, had mastered the palace so quickly. She was a princess, though, and used to such places.
A guard was before the door, and when they nodded to her, she said, “I am here to see the King.”
“Princess, he is occupied.”
“His occupation is with me,” Isobel said simply. “Tell him his betrothed is here,” she looked at Teryn, “with her senechal, the Lord Teryn.”
“Lord—” Teryn began.
“Would you like to be a lord?” she said to him.
“Lady…” he began, then, “Princess…”
“Of course you would,” she said, then to the guard, “Tell him at once.”
Her tone was irrefutable, and the guard nodded, opened the door, and went through. A moment later, he said, “The King will see you for a short time.”
“He will see me as long as I see fit,” Isobel said, “and the sooner you learn this the better. Come, Teryn.”
“But, my lady—”
“Come,” she said, and the boy followed.
“You don’t look very busy,” Isobel said as she entered the large room where Cedd was sitting before his desk with Anthony beside him.
The door closed behind them.
“Isobel,” Cedd said, rising, and then he looked confused, as did Anthony. “Teryn?”
Isobel came forward and said, “The first order of business is that this place would benefit from some light, but there is a second order of business that must be discussed now.”
“The palace is not used to having a queen,” Cedd said, “and they will learn proper respect soon.”
“Husband, I will teach them proper respect soon. The wedding will teach them. My mother’s appearance will teach them. That is of little matter. What we must address, principally, is how things are between us. All of us.”
“All of…” Anthony began.
“Anthony, I am no fool. Maybe I am too headstrong, too forward for everyone’s good, but I have seen the way you look at Teryn. I know what is between the two of you. And I had begun to suspect what is between you and the King.”
When Cedd’s eyebrow rose, Isobel continued, “What I had not seen is what is between the King and Teryn. I saw that quite clearly. More than appreciation for a handsome boy or admiration for a king. And what I have seen is no one’s eyes are on me.”
“My dear,” Cedd began.
“As I have said,” Isobel continued, “I am no fool. I am your queen, and your support, the one who rules beside you. I expect to work beside you, help you in all things, be a proper queen and yes, to bear your son. But the three of you may do as you wish. I know your affection does not lie toward women. Only one thing, Cedd.”
He looked at her, waiting.
“You must let my heart do as it pleases as well as long as I bring no disgrace to your name.”
When he said nothing, Isobel said, “I know I have given you much to think on, so think on it, and then come back to me.”
She curtseyed.
“Teryn,” she called, and then she went to the door, knocked on it, it opened for her, and Isobel was gone with Teryn Wesley after her.





INGLAD




In time, Myrne and Wolf parted from Sanelin and Tim, and Bessie’s kin sailed north for Ambridge, Tim declaring, “You all be the best crew this boat ever had.”
But now they rode south along the low valley to Durham, for the double abbey of Saint Clew, and presently they saw a troop of White Monks bearing, the banner of the Eternal Sun, riding toward them.
“Is that the banner of Daumany?” Wolf said.
“But it is,” Myrne observed. “Well… do we join them? Or do we follow behind?”
“It would be strange if we rode quickly to get ahead of them,” Wolf said. “We would be delayed if we continued to ride behind them. They are foreigners. Let us ride as we are and see what happens. Stay behind me. I will ride at the head.”
But even as they were approaching, the train of black monks stopped and the banners lowered.
“Myrne!” Wolf said.
“It’s too late to turn around now,” she returned, riding on.
She rode straight to the main litter, black as night, and as she did, the curtain opened and a long tall man, with a longish but not unpleasant face was lowered.
“Peace!” Myrne called out.
“And peace to you, Lady.
“I am the Lady Myrne of the Rootless Isle, and this is my manservant, Wolf.”
“Manservant?” Wolf murmured.
“Be quiet,” Myrne hissed.
“We are on our way to Saint Clew, for we have had a vision that danger is about to strike, and we have come to warn the sisters and, if we can, protect them.”
Odo’s eyes widened, then he said, “My lady, I am on my way there for the same reason. Come, join our party. Be at your ease. We shall reach the monastery together.”



KINGSBORO





Something was in the air. Something was going to happen tonight, so Teryn was not surprised when there was a knock on the door. He was surprised, though, when it was not the Princess Isobel, but Anthony Pembroke.
“Teryn, come with me,” Anthony said.
There was no command in his voice, but asking, and Teryn nodded.
“Do I need anything?”
The fair haired man looked on him and smiled.
“No lad. Only bring yourself.”
Teryn nodded and closed the door behind him.
The lights in the halls were out now, for it was late, and as they passed through the gallery he had traveled with Isobel that morning, the white moon shone on the floors and pillars. But they did not come to the King’s chamber where they had been before. Now they went down the hall to the right, and headed up a stair he’d never traveled before.
“These are the royal apartments, are they not?”
“Some of them,” Anthony answered.
Here the corridors were lit by gold light from lanterns on the walls, shining on the rich tapestries, and now Anthony tapped softly with the back of his hand and pressed the door open.
“Oh my!” Teryn began.
This office was larger and more grand that the office Teryn had seen before, and the mullioned windows looked onto the main bailey. But they passed this now, and Teryn was in a rich room, centered by a grand bed with posts that touched the ceiling and on the edge of a bed almost wide as Teryn’s own room sat the King.
“Teryn,” he said.
“Your Grace,” Teryn said.
But now Anthony took Teryn by the hand, and he led him to the bed where now he sat between Anthony and the King.
Cedd looked at him tenderly, a little nervously. And Teryn felt Anthony’s kiss.
“You do not have to,” Cedd said, taking his hand, “if you do not want to.”
Teryn was disarmed because the King, of whom he had been jealous when he knew Anthony loved him, whom he had been in awe of upon meeting, looked on him so sweetly and with so much uncertainty, and now Teryn found himself stroking the cheek, stroking the thin beard, marveling at the softness of it, touching the king’s red mouth, his half open lips and, at last, kissing him, feeling the softness of those lips, the tenderness of his tongue.
Now they were holding each other’s faces and now Anthony was reaching around undressing him. Now he was lying down between the two older men who were looking on him with so much sweetness, and on each other, taking turns to kiss him while they kissed each other, undressing him and leading him in undressing them. Now they moved kiss to kiss, mouth to mouth, and the kisses that began on the lips went to their throats, to their breasts and stomachs and further still.
“Anthony,” Cedd looked up from kissing Teryn, still running his hands over the boy’s stomach, and over his breastbone, “Turn down the lamps, would you?”
Naked, Anthony rose, and a few moments later, in the darkness he returned, pressing himself against the lovers, who opened for him to join them.

MORE TOMORROWISH....

 

[CharmedFan28]

That was a great portion! Lots going on but still a very engaging story. I am glad Isobel asserted herself to the King and the others. Excellent writing and I look forward to more soon!

 

[ChrisGibson]

As, yes, Isobel was biding her time and waiting as long as she could to make her move, but then it was time and she had to act!

 

[ChrisGibson]

Eighteen



The Lord replied, “Even though you detain me, I will not eat any of your food. But if you prepare a burnt offering, offer it unto me.” Then Manallyn inquired of the Lord, “What is your name, so that we may honor you when your word comes true?”
And he replied, “Why do you ask my name, which is Mysterious?”

- The Book of the Shades




EREK



The Kimball house was no different from any other on the street that wound up and down the hill. From the street you could look down and see the peaked roves of the houses below, and beyond you could see the stone and stucco facades of the houses above. Allman, Austin and Skabelund, had drawn the attention of the people on the street and now, out of the Kimbell house, came a slightly frazzled looking, golden haired woman in a gingham dress with a black haired baby on her hip, and then came a tall man with too much hair, unshaven, standing behind her.
“Can we help you?” he asked before she did.
There was a touch of belligerence in his tone, but did he know they might be important, after all, they were all in black robes or black suits. It was Elder Pradden who spoke.
“Is this the home of Kimball family?”
“It is,” the woman answered, but the man seemed to be cautioning her before he said, himself, “It is.”
“And is this your child, born some five months ago?”
“Now suppose you tell us who you are?” the long tall father said before the woman could speak.
“We are from Nava,” Elder Pradden said, “And I am the youngest of the Council of Elders, come in the name of the Prophet.”
At this the woman made a bow as low as she could, burdened by an infant, and the man nodded curtly before saying, “This is our son, Dhalan. He was born five months ago.”
“Five months and two days,” his mother said, and the infant made a small noise, squirming at this.
“We have reason to believe,” Pradden said, “that your son, born nine months after the death of our last prophet, is the Prophet Joses reborn.”
Erek was worried the woman might drop the baby, but instead her hold tightened on him while the father stood up straighter.
“May we come in?” Pradden asked.
“Aimee, let them in,” the father said, and the woman nodded and allowed the five of them into the house.
Aimee was pouring them drinks and checking little Dhalan in his cradle while her husband, irritated, swatted the other children away.
“The moment nine months and a day had passed since the death of the Prophet Manoah, we began to search out all the houses in Zahem where a child was born in or around that day, all the houses in good standing with a husband and a wife.”
“I can’t believe,” the husband said, sitting down, his elbows pointed out so he looked a bit like a mantis, “that we are the only family in Zahem that fits that description.”
“Joses!” Aimee chided him.
“When we ruled out those born in bad standing or to non practicing families or to families not Zahem, to Rebel houses, the pool grew much smaller,” Elder Pradden said. “Of course we ruled out those born illegitimately, or from houses of mixed blood.”
Joses made a cough and laughed here, ruefully.
“At last we looked for those born closest to the nine months and one day mark,” Pradden continued, “and even then we looked for certain signs, resemblances to the families the Prophet was always born into. At last it came down to you.”
“And so now you take the kid off to Nava,” his father said, sitting back.
“Not at all,” Pradden said. “Or,” he reformed, “not exactly.”
Now Brother Allman spoke.
“We will return when Dhalan is five, with objects belonging to our deceased Prophet in life, to see if he remembers them, if he remembers at all his old lives, and then we will take him to the Great City, inside the Temple, to pray and to see if it is familiar to him.”
“Children do not enter the Temple,” Aimee said.
“No,” Allman agreed. “But he will enter the forecourt, and if it is revealed there that he is the Prophet, then further in he will go. For it is his.”
“The Prophet Joses died in Westrial,” Joses, his namesake said, “he never saw the Temple or this land.”
“But when he was reborn,” Aimee reminded her husband, “he would have. And he would have known it many times, life after life.”
She looked to the cradle now, thinking of her baby.
“It is taught,” Aimee said, quietly, “that Our Father in Heaven begat us with his Wives before the world began, all spirits, and that he chose at what times we would be born into this world as women, and as men, but that after our earthly life we would return to our Father and our Mothers. And yet the Prophet can never return,” she spoke, looking over her son in sadness, “over and over again he must return to the earth.”
“Until the Last Days,” Allman said, “When God Himself comes in glory. Then the Prophet will be joined to every bride and every child, every family he had in every life. Can you imagine how glorious that will be?”
“I’d imagine it would be confusing,” Joses said, “and I don’t think I need my son having a thousand other fathers in a thousand other lifetimes but me.”
“But we all have only one Father,” Austin heard Erek say, enthusiastically.
Joses frowned and said, “And I don’t see why the Prophet wouldn’t be born anywhere, any place to anyone.”
“Because that’s not the way it is done,” Allman declared.
Joses snorted.
Aimee said, rising, “Nevermind all that. I will see you out. You will return to see us when the child is five.”
Allman rose before the other men, putting his hands together and bowing, “We will.”



Since Dhalan had come to live at the Temple, or rather Temple Court, he had learned that, for him, it was better to anticipate the moves of all around him rather than wait to be told what to do, or asked to do it in a kindly way, which amounted to being told what to do. So it was barely ten in the morning of the day he’d learned of the old Prophet’s death when he rose, washed, bathed and removed himself and his immediate servants across the courtyard into the Great House.
When he arrived, the Seventy were still there, and they all bowed low as he entered the Great Hall. He could see he had taken them by surprise and was pleased by this. Elder Snow, upon rising, approached Dhalan and said, “Holiness, the body of the Prophet still lies in his rooms being dressed.”
“I will go and see him,” Dhalan announced, pushing a hand through his thick black hair. “And see that apartments are prepared for me.”
“But, Prophet,” Elder Snow said, “you will have the rooms of Prophet Zakil once they have been cleansed.”
“I will not,” Dhalan said, looking back as he headed up the circular staircase. “You will find me fitting rooms in which a man has not recently died. Also, if you can, summon the palace staff so I can meet with them before noon.”

On a table, by the great bed, the fragile body of the former Prophet lay, jaw bound in cloth, the eyes closed with wax coins, the female relatives washing the flesh, a cloth over his genitals. Dhalan was still murmuring the First Prayers for the Dead when Allman and Skabelund came into the room and were immediately silent until the young man was finished. He approached them.
“Your Honor,” Allman began, “the palace staff will be summoned as you requested, but you must also—”
“Arrange a meeting with the Seventy,” Dhalan concluded. “And the High Priest as well. There will be government briefings but before all that, we must go into the Temple and purify. Purify to be purified, I suppose, so I can stand in charge of the funeral tomorrow.”
“Yes,” Allman said, his mouth opening and shutting in frustration.
“Brother Allman?” Dhalan said.
“Yes, Prophet.”
“I need that mattress burned, and this room turned into something else, and please be quick about setting me up new apartments.”
“The succeeding Prophet has always kept the same room,” Skabelund said.
“Well when Yahn returns he can have this room again, but according to you I am Joses reborn and Joses reborn is not sleeping here.”
“Prophet,” Allman began, “you are young.”
“I am the youngest Prophet in three hundred years,” Dhalan said.
“And you will require guidance.”
“You are saying yes, Prophet, but you are thinking, ‘This is the boy Dhalan, whom we had hoped would not come to power for some time if not at all.’”
“Prophet,” Allman said, “power is the wrong word.”
“Power is the only word for the ruler of the Zahem, which I now am, the true and living Prophet. Because you chose it. You and Skabelund and all of you rode in on your horses, came to my parents and chose it, but I imagine if you even believed it you thought you would have the shaping and perhaps the ruling of me. And it has not happened, and now the damage is done and done by you. I may be a boy, but I am the boy who is the ruler of the Zahem, and you need to know that.”
Dhalan frowned and looked at the large empty, unmade bed, past the body of the dead Prophet.
“Now burn that damn mattress,” he murmured, “and set up my apartments.”



DISSENBARK



While she rode, Dissenbark Layton remembered all that Nimerly had spoken of that last night before the young witch headed south.
The Dame of the Rootless Isle had entered her room while she packed. Dissenbark knew the Crystal Lady was not young, but there were no lines in her face or grey in her hair.
“You have been a joy since you came to us,” she said. “There is no reason for you to leave.”
When Dissenbark opened her mouth, Nimerly said, “I mean that. This is your home now.”
“Lady, I am glad to travel,” Dissenbark told her. “In fact, I need to.”
Nimerly nodded.
“Very well. And yet, I cannot rightly say I know what you are traveling to. I have dreamed of a great star. A jewel, and that it is in the south. Sometimes when I dream, the star is a woman, and then other times it is a jewel of great power, lost in the Age of Heroes, in the times of the Cities of Light.”
“Some of these tales I know,” Dissenbark said. “But only a little.”
Nimerly said, “Even here, on the Rootless Isle, we do not speak of that distant time, but it has been said that one day we might have to bring back the Beryl that is a Star, that Assanad brought with her from the lands across the sea.”
Dissenbark blinked as Nimerly sank lower in her seat.
At last, Dissenbark said, “Lady, do you have any idea where this Star could be found?”
“I do not know completely,” Nimerly said. “It’s location is only rumored.”
“Well, then share the rumor with me.”
The Dame of the Rootless Isle cleared her throat to speak.
“It was stolen,” Nimerly said. “Of old it had been taken by the Solahni, but it was won back. However the Beryl was stolen again and none knew where it was.
“In recent year there were rumors. Princess Jergen of Chyr, granddaughter of Queen Ermengild, came here, asking. I told her what I had heard, that the Beryl was either in the keeping of the Black Hands in one of their castles or in their Temple. Jergen was never seen again, for she went to the Castles. But I believe it is in their Temple.”
“And the Temple is where, Lady?”
“Hidden,” Nimerly said. “For after some time another people came and took possession of the Temple, or so they thought they did. They practiced their secret rites in it, thinking they knew everything, but they knew very little. If I am write the Beryl Jergen sought, of which I have dreamed is in Ennsalisa.”
“Ennsalisa?”
“As the city was once called. But now it is called Nava, and that dark Temple is the very Temple of the Zahem, where no man who is not a Zahem has ever set foot, not in nearly a five hundred years.”


MORE IN A COUPLE OF DAYS

 

[CharmedFan28]

All this talk about the prophet and the line of succession is very interesting. It will be cool to read what happens next in a few days! Excellent writing!

 

[ChrisGibson]

And to think, I was actually going to cut all of this out. I'm glad you enjoyed it and seeing some of Austin's world. Thank you so much for reading.

 

[ChrisGibson]

THE ABBEY OF
SAINT CLEW​

“My father loved me,” the Abbess Gertrude declared, while Hilary lifted her veil, and began to unwrap the wimple from about the old woman’s face.
“When I was seventeen he prepared a small dowry, what he could afford, to have me married to a young knight, and he did well. He did very well for himself. Father always told me he would get me a good husband, but I said no. I wished to become a nun. And so,” Gertrude bowed her head, “he bowed his head to this and brought me to Saint Clew. I was nothing but a choir sister, not lowly as a farm sister, for in those days they still had two levels of nuns. In time, by the grace of heaven, I became Abbess. There were more powerful women than me, and certainly wiser, but the title came to me, and now it comes to you,” she said to Hilda.”
Hilda sat across from her, entirely covered in the great black veil than went over her white robe.
“Hilary, I thank you,” Gertrude said, touching the girl’s hand, and Hilary knew she was dismissed. She bowed to the old woman and then to Hilda.
When the door closed behind her, Gertrude spoke.
“We were not born alike. I was the bastard daughter of a lusty knight who cared for the child he got on a tavern wench, and you are the daughter of a king and queen, born from noble lines, sister to monarchs. But we are the same in spirit. If I had not known it before, I knew it at your father’s funeral when you sang the morning hymn and there were no dry eyes in that house.
“Tonight will be the last time I recite the prayers before announcing that you will become Abbess. You will be made abbess twelve days hence.”
“Mother!”
“Ah, but it is all but done now,” Gertrude said. “You are truly abbess in all but name. But all the same, the name counts.”
There was a reluctant knock at the door and Hilda rose to answer.
Hilary was on the other side.
“You have visitors. The abbey has visitors. Abbot Odo of Saint Fundagast at Fonteroy, the brother of King Rufus of Daumany has come to pay court.”
Hilda rose and left the room without bidding goodbye to Gertrude who smiled and said, “I am napping until night prayer.”
The monastery was two great long low buildings of stone joining by a cloister and before a great chapel. A courtyard was before the cloister and in it the monks of the abbey were helping the visiting monks take their things to the guesthouse. Bells were ringing from the carillon, and as Hilda came out into the busy yard, she saw Odo and he saw her. She stopped herself from running.
“Sister Abbess,” he said, placing his hands together, and bowed his head before looking up at her.
“Brother Abbot,” she murmured in return, and the two of them stood like that until she saw two more approaching, and raised her eyes blinking uncertainly.
“I know you!” she began. “You were at my father’s funeral. In Kingsboro.” Then she said, “You were the liegeman of the Lord Ohean.”
But before Wolf could say anything, Myrne said, “My lady, I have traveled for weeks to reach you. A vision came to all of us. You are in the greatest of dangers. We are here to help.”
“I do not remember you,” Hilda said. “Were you to in Kingsboro?”
Myrne looked to Wolf before she said, “I was in hiding, with your brother Anson, and until now we have been in the company of Anson and Ohean. My name is Myrne, daughter of Ceoldane of Herreboro, twice born of the royal line of Wulfstan.”
Wolf looked at her, for though he had always known this must be true, she had never spoken the dangerous Wulfstan name. Now she stood before the brother of the King of Daumany and the sister of two monarchs declaring herself.
“Then I will declare as well,” Wolf said.
“Whatever for?” said Myrne.
His sword rang as it came out of its scabbard, and some of the guards put their hands to their scabbards as others came to attention.
“I am Osric Wulfstan,” Wolf sang to Hilda, “son of Eoga, grandson of Edred and heir to the thrones of Hale, Inglad and North Hale, and if by my breath and body I can aid you, then I shall.”

HERE ENDS PART TWO

PART THREE WILL BEGIN TOMORROW​

 

[CharmedFan28]

That was a great ending to part 2. It sounds like we are coming up to war in part 3 and I hope that there aren’t to many casualties of people we know well. Wonderful writing as always and I look forward to more tomorrow!

 

[ChrisGibson]

AS PART THREE BEGINS WE MEET THEONE AND THE MAN PURSUING HER




THE DAUMAN MARCHES




He is almost stark white, but on the top of the hill he is all in black and on a black horse, just like any predator would be. And like most villains, he is committed to finding his prey. But it is not personal, and there is the difference. This is devotion. If you could see his left wrist, under his black cloak and his sleeve, then you would see the Black Star.
He has a flat, unbeautiful face, and his eyes are vacant. He is not really scanning the horizon for a sight of her. He is sniffing for a scent. Over there. Yes, to the east, between those hills. Find her.
He doesn’t know her name. Names confuse things and they are more or less irrelevant. He knows her face. When he sees her again, he will know her. He will know all of her, and she will be shaken. She will be disturbed by the unwavering look in his eyes, and then he will kill her.
Nodding, he gathers the reins of the horse, and having gained his bearing, and a knowledge of where she is, he rides, certainly, in her direction.





THEONE DREADED THE NIGHTS, and she hated the wind. Could she go back? No. Having already escaped, why would you go back? Having gotten away, even too late, it was better than never getting away at all. Having gotten away unprepared, she would have to do her best.
In the days before her captivity, she had heard of people making their treks through the desert. Bones that were found from the ones who had never prepared, or prepared badly to cross the wastes. Crossing these plains was just like this. Theone had run, and the days were cold. But the howling nights were much colder. She ran on foot. With a horse it would have been quicker, but she would have been conspicuous. She would have been found right away, and the only thing worse than where she had come from, was where she was preparing to go, so she was in no hurry.
In the distance there was a town. Three days away from Cananna she stopped knowing the names of towns. It did not matter. Each one was a place she didn’t dare stay. A place in the forest, or maybe even a house in the forest was best.
The sky was growing dark now, the clouds turning grey, the air getting colder, coming through the thick felt of her cloak. In the distance, the lights of the town were beginning to burn.
“Not another night,” Theone said. “Not if I can help it.”
She was so tired. She wished she was a witch and could work some sort of spell to take away the blisters, but the only magic she knew was that powerful and necessary indifference that made it possible to go great distances and do the impossible long after she’d lost the energy for both.
Because of that, she walked the road another hour, well past darkness, always straining her ears for the sound of horse hooves though there had been none, nor were there fellow travelers on this road for the better part of the day. Thoughts of how long the road ahead was invaded her brain, and she exorcised them. The more impossible, the more undesirable her future was, the more Theone pushed it away. Only this moment. Only this movement of one foot in front of the other. The listening for horse hooves, for anyone in the distance.
And then she saw the farmhouse across the high fields. Going through the crops was prickly, painful, and perhaps dangerous. At this moment she didn’t care. It could take a long time, but she had nothing but time. So she came off the road and went slowly, steadily, as mindlessly as possible through the corn, and she passed the house heading for the barn. If anyone was following her, then they might look at the house too. She wouldn’t ask to borrow the barn. If she didn’t ask then they couldn’t say no. In fact, they couldn’t know, and then they would never be in trouble having helped her.
She was coming through the last of the corn, and she felt blood on her face. The harsh cellulose of the stalks must have cut her. There was just a little bit of food in her sack. She could make a go of it for one more night. All you ever had to do was survive one more night.


He came to the inn that night after he had ridden all through town. He thought his strange power of sniffing would help him find her, but either it failed him or she was smart enough to stay near cities. Was she staying on the road? If so she was on foot, right? Well then he could easily find her by morning. He could sit on the back of that horse a long while in the middle of the road, waiting for some sign of her, some distant scent of her, some feeling.
“Give me a room.”
The man at the desk raised an eyebrow, unafraid of the man in black and said, “Please.”
The man looked at him.
“The proper address is please,” he shook his head. “People have no manners anymore.”
“A spare room,” the man repeated. “And while you’re about it, tell me if you have seen a girl with dusky skin, black hair. About this height.”
“A tall one.”
“Have you seen such a woman?”
“There are a lot of girls like that in these parts.”
“Then your answer is no.”
“That’s my answer, and we’ll see about getting you that room, I suppose. Come now.”
He didn’t feel much, but what he felt right now was irritation. He followed the man up a narrow flight of stairs, past the common room where there was drinking and singing and the innkeeper said, “There’s good food down there tonight.”
“I’m doubt I’ll be coming down.”
“Well, that’s up to you I’m sure. Is this a good room?”
“Do you have one not so close to the steps?”
“You don’t like people, eh?”
“No, I don’t,” the man in black said. “And I don’t like their noises. Another room?”
The innkeeper, whose key had been about to unlock the door, withdrew it and said, “Down the hall. Yes.”
They went down the hall and around the corner, and he said, “At the very end. There is a room. Yes. Yes.”
He said yes every few seconds until he reached the end of the hall and said, “There ought to be a window here. I’m afraid you’ve only got one little window in this room.”
“Windows are overrated.”
The little man opened the door and said, “Here you go. It’s a bit musty. Maybe mousy.”
“It’s fine.”
“And if you don’t feel much like eating, there’s always socializing.”
The man stopped and looked at the new arrival. “Though I don’t suppose you’d be much into that.”
“I’d be alright without it,” he said.
“All right. Well then, good.” The innkeeper took a deep, brave breath. “And how will you be signing for this?”
At that he received a cold gaze, and the cloaked man pressed his wrist against the wooden door. The innkeeper smelled a burning and then saw the door on fire and tried to back away, but the man gripped his shoulders.
“No. Look at that. Look well!” he said, for the first time lively. He held the innkeeper’s face to the heart of the small fire.
But then it was gone, and in its wake there remained, black and smoking, a six pointed star.

Though sullenness was the closest thing he usually had to emotion, he also realized that there was no point in it right now. Any emotion that interfered with a job should be put away. And there was a job to be performed.
So he put away the black cloak and though, what it left was a man still wearing lots of black, he seemed long and narrow and handsome. He could look less than poisonous if he wanted to. He could look something like someone who could be talked to.
He studied himself in the mirror, his tilted, almond eyes narrow, the sweep of black hair, dusky skin. He looked arrogant. Arrogance attracted other arrogant people. He was no actor. He could never have looked sweet or kind because there was neither sweetness nor kindness in him. This was him. Arrogant people who liked to hear themselves talk might come and disturb the peace he would pretend to be trying to have. They were always the best. They told everything.
He closed his hand around the dagger at his side. He wondered if tonight he would have to make up a name. Once there had been a real name, but that was a long time ago. The little boy who had come to the Black Star, passing through the Veil had had the name. Who he is was nameless.
Down he went to the common room. It was a long silent walk down that empty hall that would have unnerved anyone who was fond of human companionship, and then down he went through the shorter hall and down the stairs to the main room where the man at the desk lowered his eyes, and then he entered the darkness and ordered himself a bottle of rye.
“A glass?”
“None of that. Just the bottle. And smoke if you have it. I am out.”
This man had some sense. No chattiness, and his face full of lines though he still must have been virtually a boy. A moment later he came to the small booth where he sat and handed him a jug, a pouch of tobacco and rolling papers. He took out a roller and made himself a cigarette and began to sit back, smoking and drinking.
It wasn’t long before a man came up. Always a man or a whore, and he had no use for whores.
“You drinking alone, brother?” the man said and he was, yes, a little arrogant looking.
He took a very long drag from the cigarette and for answer, exhaled from his nose, his eyes going narrow.
“Can I have a smoke?”
He pushed his roller and the pouch and papers toward the man.
“What can you tell me about this town?” he said, his hand stretched out across the table, palm down to hide the Black Star.
“Oh, shit,” the man laughed as he squeezed out a cigarette that was almost too thick, “I can tell you everything.”


Theone was not a witch, but she was what they called a Talent, one whom witchcraft and magic seemed to sprinkle from time to time. She’d been around it so long some of it stuck to her, and for good or ill she was surrounded by it. There was just enough to, in this gutter water, with the smell of hay and dung and the lowing of animals all around her, do a scrying. When she was younger she thought it was unreasoned dread or paranoia that led her to do things. Now she realized that it was another sense and one she wished she could control, that warned her.
She lit the lantern, keeping it away from the hay. Only this red light was illuminating the water, and she waited. The trick was to wait. People were so lazy, and yet waiting was the hardest thing to do. She waited till she got drowsy, and then she blinked.
In the water, such a dim shadow she almost missed it, suddenly she saw, darkly, a man at a table. He was thin and pale like her, and smoking a cigarette, listening to another man who was blathering on about something unimportant. Theone knew it was unimportant. And then at once the man shook his sleeve and Theone’s eyes widened, but she didn’t break away from the water, or else the vision would go. And then it might not come back. There was, on his wrist, the Black Star. And suddenly he looked up. He looked right at her. He was looking up as if trying to focus, as if almost seeing, and then Theone plunged her hand in the water and broke the vision.
“He’s near,” she said. There was no need to question if he was near or not. Of course he was or why would the water have showed him?
Theone stood up.
“I’m tired,” she said in an angry tone. “I’m so fucking tired!”
Should she stay here for the night? Or should she run? This vision seemed to imply she should run.
“I could take a horse.”
She had stayed off of horses, though.
“If he is in a tavern then it must be in that last town I passed. If he is there this night then he’s not riding at night.”
The fact was she was afraid of night. She was afraid to go anywhere at night. If this Black Star didn’t catch her, something else would.
“Well,” Theone murmured. She closed her eyes and nervously whispered some enchantment over herself. “Mother, protect me. Mother, protect me….”
It was a half hearted spell mixed with a half hearted prayer and almost no faith. As Theone approached the horse she suspected would be red in the light of day, and spoke to her soothingly, she reflected that the Mother had never been very good at protecting her before.




MORE TOMORROW

 

[CharmedFan28]

A great start to part 3! It was cool to meet Theone and the man pursuing her. I think I am going to enjoy this new part quite a bit. Excellent writing and I look forward to more tomorrow!

 

[ChrisGibson]

Theone is my favorite part, and even though she seems very separate from the rest of the story.... I won't say a bit more.