In the world of Evandar, there is a level of technology that is approximately equivalent to what was in the world during the middle ages (5th - 15th cent CE). The region that the first books take place in are a rough analog to Europe. I have other regions that will be approximately like other cultures from that period of history. Some of them, you might have glimpsed in the stuff I have shared here.
The Horse Lords (One tribe named for Minghaa, others yet to be named) are roughly based off of the Huns.
The Cordid/Kordid are a bit of an homage to Tolkein's Rohirrim, but I will be keeping them tied to their seafarer roots. Stories are due about how they were driven away from the sea.
Elspar is those of the Cordid who were not driven away by the first wave of invaders from the south and the descendants of those invaders. It will be loosely patterned after Italian culture from this era with a measure of Gallic and Germanic influences.
Corinth on the eastern edge of the sea and south of Elspar is going to be my analog to Byzantium, with a few notable changes. It is an opulent and wealthy kingdom that technically is a satellite of the empire of Caer Dodth, but powerful enough that it functions as its own entity.
The empire of Caer Dodth stretches along the southern landmass below the sea of shadows (whose northern shores are Evandar and Ranyth) until it reaches near the isthmus of night. It is how I envision the Roman empire would have been if they remained into the middle ages.
The isthmus of night is so named because it is accursed ground. On both sides of the isthmus is a region known as the Darklands. On the northern side, there is a great stretch of marshlands known as the fens. The people who live there are patterned roughly after various aboriginal cultures from around the world. Outside of the fens, the Darklands are peopled by the remnants of various cultures that had gone before and served the will of the Deamons.
West of the kingdom of Evandar is a desert known as The Waste. Across this desert lies Dacia. Dacia is a mishmash of pseudo-arab cultures as handed down through the imagination of Western society. There are other peoples both within the Waste and beyond it that ring truer to the Arab cultures of antiquity (as far as I can research them).
From what I know of the state of our world during the era we call the middle ages, I am attempting to place the world of Evandar in a similar context. There will be remnants of an earlier time scattered here and there. The elves will show, like Sideria and her knapped stone arrowheads, evidence of that earlier time. It will be a bit tricky, I know, to build this level of complexity but I think the end results will be well worth it.
Sunday, January 25, 2015
Monday, January 5, 2015
Flora et Fauna: Dragons
Dragons are creatures that men and demigods regard cautiously. There are two kinds of dragons. One kind is considered inferior to the other. Lesser dragons, also known as lesser wyrms, are animals of dangerous cunning and a very territorial attitude. Lesser wyrms can range in size from something approximately the size of a small car to something that is approximately one hundred feet long. Greater wyrms are possessed of an intelligence that is alien but comparable to humans. Adult greater wyrms are between one hundred and two hundred feet in length.
Lesser wyrms are terrestrial creatures with pseudowings that extend from their shoulders. The pseudowings of a large adult lesser wyrm are fifty feet from tip to tip at most. The pseudowings of lesser wyrms are displayed primarily in mating rituals and assertions of dominance. The greater the wingspan of a lesser wyrm's pseudowings, the more aggressive the wyrm will be. Generally, male lesser wyrms are larger then the females and possessed of more spines along the pseudowing.
Lesser wyrms are generally diurnal creatures. They all are venomous, though the degree of toxicity of the venom varies with size. The smallest of the lesser wyrms venom will immobilize an adult deer. The venom of the largest of the lesser wyrms is corrosive and serves to 'predigest' their prey. Female lesser wyrms live in a group known as a clutch which is made of three to five individuals. Male lesser wyrms stake out territory and will run off or eat juvenile lesser wyrms after their first molting, when they experience the onset of puberty.
The diet of lesser wyrms is carnivorous. When their preferred prey (deer, elk, and bear) are scarce, lesser wyrms will attack livestock and humans. Lesser wyrms have a recorded history of attacking and generally being hostile towards humans. The largest variety of lesser wyrms have been recorded as devastating settlements. Human encroachment into a clutch's territory can lead to difficulties with lesser wyrms attacking parties or consuming livestock.
Dominant females in a clutch will attack the broods of lesser females. The attrition rate of juvenile lesser wyrms is high due to this and the aggressive behaviors of the males. The alpha female mates first with the male and usually has the highest success rate in hatching and sustaining young. Lesser wyrms are oviparous. The shells of the eggs become progressively harder as the female matures. After first molting, female lesser wyrms will lay leathery shelled eggs. These eggs generally do not survive the brooding phase. Dominant females in a clutch will eat the eggs of subordinate females. Lesser wyrms have two broods every five years. Each brood starts out with between three to six eggs. After the brooding phase, usually one or two eggs remain for the hatching phase.
Juvenile lesser wyrms are hatched blind. They are dependent upon their mothers for nourishment for the first two years of their life. When the juvenile lesser wyrm has reached the age where their scales harden (approximately two and a half years old) the covering over their eyes is shed. This is known as pre-molting. Approximately three years of age, lesser wyrms begin to progress through puberty. This is when they experience their first molting.
After their first molting, lesser wyrms take on their adult coloration. The coloration of juvenile lesser wyrms is dark grey to mud brown. Adult lesser wyrms range in color from an indigo color to a sandstone yellow. Lesser wyrms that inhabit colder climes tend towards darker coloration that allows them to blend in better with the stony ground they live on. Lesser wyrms that inhabit warmer climes, such as the desert lesser wyrm, have a coloration that matches the ground they are found on.
Greater wyrms have a resemblance to their lesser counterparts as juveniles. Unlike lesser wyrms, greater wyrms have true wings and are capable of flight. Greater wyrms are solitary creatures that are considered to be highly dangerous like their lesser counterparts. Greater wyrms, however, tend to view 'thinking' life as something to be cultivated. Greater wyrms are creatures of pure magic, where as lesser wyrms are animals.
Greater wyrms have the capacity to shapeshift. They have been known to move amongst humanity and the elves in disguise. Greater wyrms, in their homid form, are of a higher core temperature. This is a reflection of their capacity to expel plasma (though it is commonly considered to be fire). Greater wyrms in their true guise look like the winged dragons of European mythos.
They favor meat but are omnivores, unlike lesser wyrms that are strictly carnivorous. Greater wyrms are of indeterminate lifespans. All known greater wyrms are adult, though of varying ages. Rumors that this 'race' is dying out have begun to pass through the regions where they are still known to be present. Greater wyrms have not expressed any indication as to if this is the case or not.
Greater wyrms are of varying temperament and personalities. Their reclusive nature does not keep them from interfering in human affairs. The influence of greater wyrms, however, is something seen over the course of generations and the rise and fall of nations. In the great war of the first age, the greater wyrms stood on either side of the conflict. Those that were in support of the deamons were driven into isolation by their opposition but they still exist in the world. Those that were in support of the elves have withdrawn from the world, for the most part, to allow humanity to 'develop on their own.' The notable exception to this is the patron of the royal lineage of Ranyth and the one who lives within Dakon-Bar, sister to the patron of Ranyth.
Lesser wyrms are terrestrial creatures with pseudowings that extend from their shoulders. The pseudowings of a large adult lesser wyrm are fifty feet from tip to tip at most. The pseudowings of lesser wyrms are displayed primarily in mating rituals and assertions of dominance. The greater the wingspan of a lesser wyrm's pseudowings, the more aggressive the wyrm will be. Generally, male lesser wyrms are larger then the females and possessed of more spines along the pseudowing.
Lesser wyrms are generally diurnal creatures. They all are venomous, though the degree of toxicity of the venom varies with size. The smallest of the lesser wyrms venom will immobilize an adult deer. The venom of the largest of the lesser wyrms is corrosive and serves to 'predigest' their prey. Female lesser wyrms live in a group known as a clutch which is made of three to five individuals. Male lesser wyrms stake out territory and will run off or eat juvenile lesser wyrms after their first molting, when they experience the onset of puberty.
The diet of lesser wyrms is carnivorous. When their preferred prey (deer, elk, and bear) are scarce, lesser wyrms will attack livestock and humans. Lesser wyrms have a recorded history of attacking and generally being hostile towards humans. The largest variety of lesser wyrms have been recorded as devastating settlements. Human encroachment into a clutch's territory can lead to difficulties with lesser wyrms attacking parties or consuming livestock.
Dominant females in a clutch will attack the broods of lesser females. The attrition rate of juvenile lesser wyrms is high due to this and the aggressive behaviors of the males. The alpha female mates first with the male and usually has the highest success rate in hatching and sustaining young. Lesser wyrms are oviparous. The shells of the eggs become progressively harder as the female matures. After first molting, female lesser wyrms will lay leathery shelled eggs. These eggs generally do not survive the brooding phase. Dominant females in a clutch will eat the eggs of subordinate females. Lesser wyrms have two broods every five years. Each brood starts out with between three to six eggs. After the brooding phase, usually one or two eggs remain for the hatching phase.
Juvenile lesser wyrms are hatched blind. They are dependent upon their mothers for nourishment for the first two years of their life. When the juvenile lesser wyrm has reached the age where their scales harden (approximately two and a half years old) the covering over their eyes is shed. This is known as pre-molting. Approximately three years of age, lesser wyrms begin to progress through puberty. This is when they experience their first molting.
After their first molting, lesser wyrms take on their adult coloration. The coloration of juvenile lesser wyrms is dark grey to mud brown. Adult lesser wyrms range in color from an indigo color to a sandstone yellow. Lesser wyrms that inhabit colder climes tend towards darker coloration that allows them to blend in better with the stony ground they live on. Lesser wyrms that inhabit warmer climes, such as the desert lesser wyrm, have a coloration that matches the ground they are found on.
Greater wyrms have a resemblance to their lesser counterparts as juveniles. Unlike lesser wyrms, greater wyrms have true wings and are capable of flight. Greater wyrms are solitary creatures that are considered to be highly dangerous like their lesser counterparts. Greater wyrms, however, tend to view 'thinking' life as something to be cultivated. Greater wyrms are creatures of pure magic, where as lesser wyrms are animals.
Greater wyrms have the capacity to shapeshift. They have been known to move amongst humanity and the elves in disguise. Greater wyrms, in their homid form, are of a higher core temperature. This is a reflection of their capacity to expel plasma (though it is commonly considered to be fire). Greater wyrms in their true guise look like the winged dragons of European mythos.
They favor meat but are omnivores, unlike lesser wyrms that are strictly carnivorous. Greater wyrms are of indeterminate lifespans. All known greater wyrms are adult, though of varying ages. Rumors that this 'race' is dying out have begun to pass through the regions where they are still known to be present. Greater wyrms have not expressed any indication as to if this is the case or not.
Greater wyrms are of varying temperament and personalities. Their reclusive nature does not keep them from interfering in human affairs. The influence of greater wyrms, however, is something seen over the course of generations and the rise and fall of nations. In the great war of the first age, the greater wyrms stood on either side of the conflict. Those that were in support of the deamons were driven into isolation by their opposition but they still exist in the world. Those that were in support of the elves have withdrawn from the world, for the most part, to allow humanity to 'develop on their own.' The notable exception to this is the patron of the royal lineage of Ranyth and the one who lives within Dakon-Bar, sister to the patron of Ranyth.
Thursday, December 18, 2014
The General Zalaz
General Zalaz was a wiry man with stick straight black hair. Where
others had their shorn close to the skull, Zalaz wore his long. Few
dared to declare this to be a womanish affectation, to do so would be
to incur his anger and fewer still had survived that. Zalaz was in
the midst of having that waist long hair braided when the servant
came into the room with the message that Marcos was waiting for him
in the courtyard. While Marcos was king of the city and considered to
be the highest man of the empire, Zalaz felt no qualms about making
him wait.
"I will come when I am ready," Zalaz said, waving a dismissive hand. The servant bowed and left the room. The woman braiding his hair paused for a moment. "Yaeli, what troubles you?" Zalaz said, knowing his concubine would not have ceased in her efforts for an idle moment or for the minor distraction that her servant provided. The woman with olive skin and auburn hair said nothing as she continued her braiding of her lover's hair. "It is Marcos, yes?" he said. Of all four of his concubines, it was Yaeli who had shared his confidences and come closest to being like a wife. Zalaz often considered making Yaeli his wife but knew the scandal that came from such a marriage would have been problematic.
He had enough chatter from the other council members over the fact that he had given Yaeli her own house in the city, complete with servants to attend her needs. While it was his in name, Yaeli was the one who lived there and attended his business. The other three concubines came to her when Zalaz returned from his diplomatic visit to Selath five years ago. They had been a gift from the governor of Selath and supposedly a sign of his good will towards Dacia. Zalaz tolerated the three women but was fairly certain the lavish 'gift' was intended to keep his attention focused on something other then Selath's reluctance to sign the accord.
"He comes bearing news of trouble," Yaeli said after a long moment of silence as she finished Zalaz's braid. "The king and emperor of Dacia does not go to the council," she said, setting a cautious hand on Zalaz's shoulder, "The council goes to him. Something is wrong." Zalaz sighed. He wanted to tell Yaeli that her worries were nothing but his gut told him that she was correct. Of all the council, Zalaz thought he was the last whom Marcos would come to in a time of trouble. Unless that trouble was one that required an army, which Zalaz suspected might be why Marcos had come to him.
"The sons of Omurath have been a thorn in Marcos's side for almost three years now," Yaeli continued, "It may be that they have raised an army..." Zalaz raised his right hand and Yaeli fell quiet. He looked over his shoulder at her. In the light of the fading evening sun, Zalaz wondered where the lines had come from on Yaeli's face. He questioned how it was that age had come upon her and then briefly considered if the stiffness creeping into his bones was perhaps signs of his own age before pushing such melancholy thoughts aside.
As he stood, Zalaz said, “Do not trouble yourself over the sons of Omurath. They are fools who think they can win the Empress by force. Julara's will is against them as it was against their father. When this business with Marcos is finished, we shall walk the gardens before attending your sisters.” Yaeli did not smile as Zalaz had hoped she would at the prospect of visiting the gardens kept by the wealthy of Dacia city and the village beyond the walls, Asser. Zalaz shook his head ruefully. “Better we are not wedded,” he said with a smile, “Or I think my bed would be cold tonight.”Yaeli rolled her eyes at the general's old jest. Zalaz considered putting on his sword belt and then decided against it, for he did not deem Marcos to be either a threat or a match of strength.
Dressed in his white tunic and full pants, Zalaz was a study of contrasts as he walked into the courtyard. His apparent air of carelessness was denied by the unconscious lethal grace with which he moved. His black braid stood out starkly on his shoulder as he approached Marcos. Zalaz offered Marcos a smile that would have been charming if it was not for the suspicion in his eyes. In the shade of the courtyard walls, Marcos seemed smaller and more timid to Zalaz. The general would have been amused if it weren't for the fact that the priest-king had only speak a word and Zalaz's life would be forfeit.
“You honor my house,” Zalaz started when Marcos looked at him. A mixture of dread and concern shone in the priest-king's eyes and Zalaz's pleasantries died on his lips. “You did not come to speak of happy things,” Zalaz said and Marcos looked away. “Do you seek me as general or councilman?” Zalaz asked.
“Both,” Marcos said quietly, motioning to the chair beside the table he sat at. Zalaz sat and noticed that Marcos' refreshments were untouched. Zalaz frowned. “Althar has gone to the sons of Omurath and, if the report is accurate, is raising an army,” Marcos said. He did not want to mention the second reason for his coming to the general, as much as Sorenan insisted it was vital he did so. Marcos rubbed the stubble on his jaw with the back of his left hand and hoped that Zalaz would seize upon the news of the raider's activities and forget the matters of his role as councilman.
“The raider's army merits a general's attention. That is not all you are here to discuss,” Zalaz said, turning to take the cup of spiced almond milk from the servant who came forward as he was sitting. “Nor is that what you are troubled by,” Zalaz continued as he set the cup on the table at his right hand, “We have discussed the raider and the sons of Omurath. There are plans in place if this is coming to bear. What drives the king of Dacia to seek out his servant?”
“Rumors,” Marcos answered so quietly that the general had thought he misheard him at first. Zalaz leaned forward slightly. “They speak of Mina in the marketplace,” he said. Zalaz started to open his mouth to state something derisive about gossips when Marcos said something that stunned him. “Some of those rumors are true,” Marcos said, “She has taken another in her arms.”
Zalaz stared at Marcos for a moment, not fully comprehending what his lord had just said. For as long as the Dacian empire has stood, the high priestess of Julara was wedded to the priest who had been chosen by lots from all who served the stern god Ashur. It was tradition that was steeped in antiquity. Tales of false priestesses who betrayed Ashur's priests were whispered in the dark, most often ending with the tragic woman torn apart by Julara's priestesses. The stories of the false priests who betrayed Julara's daughter were more grisly.
Zalaz looked at Marcos. “You would have me bring this before the council? They would see her hanged,” Zalaz said, watching Marcos' face closely. At the mention of Mina's possible death, panic shot through Marcos. “This lover,” Zalaz continued, “he is the warrior from the north, if the rumors are true. And, if the rumors are true, you have welcomed him in your bed.” Marcos said nothing but looked at the cut pieces of melon on the plate at his left hand. Zalaz gave a small sigh and leaned back in his seat.
“What would you have me do, Marcos?” Zalaz said, “The priestesses would kill you both. The council is powerless against them. If this were some small garrison town, there may have been hope.”
“The priestesses know,” Marcos answered, lifting his gaze to Zalaz's face, “They have known for the last three years.” Zalaz's eyebrows went up with amazement. “It is Julara's will that we have come together,” Marcos said.
“And Ashur?” Zalaz said. Marcos looked down at the plate again. “The gods have willed this,” Zalaz said slowly, “You are sure of it?” Marcos didn't answer and Zalaz leaned forward. He gripped Marcos' left wrist hard and the priest-king looked up. Terror and desperation warred in the priest-king's eyes. Zalaz frowned. “Tell me,” he said, “What were the signs of it?”
“The stars,” Marcos replied, “It was the stars.” Zalaz let go of Marcos' wrist. “When Mina became high priestess, the three stars aligned,” Marcos said, a curious sense of lightness stealing into him as he spoke, “The book of Ashur spoke of a lion coming to the couch of Julara and Ashur a year later. That was when Sorenan took my place in Mina's bed on the journey to Malath. It was a ruse to deceive Omurath's assassin. Somehow, on that journey, he became more then a shield between Mina and Omurath. He...” Marcos' words failed him and he dropped his head into his hands and wept.
Zalaz regarded him solemnly. He knew that the other council members would be furious. As much as he disliked Marcos and his timidness, Zalaz couldn't help the sense of compassion that rose in his breast for the situation Marcos was in. If he was honest with himself, Zalaz would admit that he felt a measure of envy for Marcos, Mina, and Sorenan. They were at least living true to their hearts' urgings. Zalaz sighed.
“The council will not be pleased,” he said tiredly. Marcos's tears moved Zalaz as much as they made him want to shake the timid man and demand he snap out of it. Zalaz thought of Yaeli. She would not forgive him if he turned away from Marcos in this hour of need, especially under these circumstances. “I will do what I can,” Zalaz said. Marcos lifted his head, gratitude shining in his face. “You, however,” he said, “Owe me a debt of my choosing.”
Marcos opened his mouth to thank Zalaz when the general lifted his hand. “Do not thank me,” he said as he pointed to the woman who stepped into the doorway across the courtyard from them, “Thank her.” Zalaz stood, disregarding proper manners and waiting for Marcos to rise. As the general stepped away from him, he said, “The king is not the only one with a secret. Go, return to your lion and bride. I will send word in three days.”
"I will come when I am ready," Zalaz said, waving a dismissive hand. The servant bowed and left the room. The woman braiding his hair paused for a moment. "Yaeli, what troubles you?" Zalaz said, knowing his concubine would not have ceased in her efforts for an idle moment or for the minor distraction that her servant provided. The woman with olive skin and auburn hair said nothing as she continued her braiding of her lover's hair. "It is Marcos, yes?" he said. Of all four of his concubines, it was Yaeli who had shared his confidences and come closest to being like a wife. Zalaz often considered making Yaeli his wife but knew the scandal that came from such a marriage would have been problematic.
He had enough chatter from the other council members over the fact that he had given Yaeli her own house in the city, complete with servants to attend her needs. While it was his in name, Yaeli was the one who lived there and attended his business. The other three concubines came to her when Zalaz returned from his diplomatic visit to Selath five years ago. They had been a gift from the governor of Selath and supposedly a sign of his good will towards Dacia. Zalaz tolerated the three women but was fairly certain the lavish 'gift' was intended to keep his attention focused on something other then Selath's reluctance to sign the accord.
"He comes bearing news of trouble," Yaeli said after a long moment of silence as she finished Zalaz's braid. "The king and emperor of Dacia does not go to the council," she said, setting a cautious hand on Zalaz's shoulder, "The council goes to him. Something is wrong." Zalaz sighed. He wanted to tell Yaeli that her worries were nothing but his gut told him that she was correct. Of all the council, Zalaz thought he was the last whom Marcos would come to in a time of trouble. Unless that trouble was one that required an army, which Zalaz suspected might be why Marcos had come to him.
"The sons of Omurath have been a thorn in Marcos's side for almost three years now," Yaeli continued, "It may be that they have raised an army..." Zalaz raised his right hand and Yaeli fell quiet. He looked over his shoulder at her. In the light of the fading evening sun, Zalaz wondered where the lines had come from on Yaeli's face. He questioned how it was that age had come upon her and then briefly considered if the stiffness creeping into his bones was perhaps signs of his own age before pushing such melancholy thoughts aside.
As he stood, Zalaz said, “Do not trouble yourself over the sons of Omurath. They are fools who think they can win the Empress by force. Julara's will is against them as it was against their father. When this business with Marcos is finished, we shall walk the gardens before attending your sisters.” Yaeli did not smile as Zalaz had hoped she would at the prospect of visiting the gardens kept by the wealthy of Dacia city and the village beyond the walls, Asser. Zalaz shook his head ruefully. “Better we are not wedded,” he said with a smile, “Or I think my bed would be cold tonight.”Yaeli rolled her eyes at the general's old jest. Zalaz considered putting on his sword belt and then decided against it, for he did not deem Marcos to be either a threat or a match of strength.
Dressed in his white tunic and full pants, Zalaz was a study of contrasts as he walked into the courtyard. His apparent air of carelessness was denied by the unconscious lethal grace with which he moved. His black braid stood out starkly on his shoulder as he approached Marcos. Zalaz offered Marcos a smile that would have been charming if it was not for the suspicion in his eyes. In the shade of the courtyard walls, Marcos seemed smaller and more timid to Zalaz. The general would have been amused if it weren't for the fact that the priest-king had only speak a word and Zalaz's life would be forfeit.
“You honor my house,” Zalaz started when Marcos looked at him. A mixture of dread and concern shone in the priest-king's eyes and Zalaz's pleasantries died on his lips. “You did not come to speak of happy things,” Zalaz said and Marcos looked away. “Do you seek me as general or councilman?” Zalaz asked.
“Both,” Marcos said quietly, motioning to the chair beside the table he sat at. Zalaz sat and noticed that Marcos' refreshments were untouched. Zalaz frowned. “Althar has gone to the sons of Omurath and, if the report is accurate, is raising an army,” Marcos said. He did not want to mention the second reason for his coming to the general, as much as Sorenan insisted it was vital he did so. Marcos rubbed the stubble on his jaw with the back of his left hand and hoped that Zalaz would seize upon the news of the raider's activities and forget the matters of his role as councilman.
“The raider's army merits a general's attention. That is not all you are here to discuss,” Zalaz said, turning to take the cup of spiced almond milk from the servant who came forward as he was sitting. “Nor is that what you are troubled by,” Zalaz continued as he set the cup on the table at his right hand, “We have discussed the raider and the sons of Omurath. There are plans in place if this is coming to bear. What drives the king of Dacia to seek out his servant?”
“Rumors,” Marcos answered so quietly that the general had thought he misheard him at first. Zalaz leaned forward slightly. “They speak of Mina in the marketplace,” he said. Zalaz started to open his mouth to state something derisive about gossips when Marcos said something that stunned him. “Some of those rumors are true,” Marcos said, “She has taken another in her arms.”
Zalaz stared at Marcos for a moment, not fully comprehending what his lord had just said. For as long as the Dacian empire has stood, the high priestess of Julara was wedded to the priest who had been chosen by lots from all who served the stern god Ashur. It was tradition that was steeped in antiquity. Tales of false priestesses who betrayed Ashur's priests were whispered in the dark, most often ending with the tragic woman torn apart by Julara's priestesses. The stories of the false priests who betrayed Julara's daughter were more grisly.
Zalaz looked at Marcos. “You would have me bring this before the council? They would see her hanged,” Zalaz said, watching Marcos' face closely. At the mention of Mina's possible death, panic shot through Marcos. “This lover,” Zalaz continued, “he is the warrior from the north, if the rumors are true. And, if the rumors are true, you have welcomed him in your bed.” Marcos said nothing but looked at the cut pieces of melon on the plate at his left hand. Zalaz gave a small sigh and leaned back in his seat.
“What would you have me do, Marcos?” Zalaz said, “The priestesses would kill you both. The council is powerless against them. If this were some small garrison town, there may have been hope.”
“The priestesses know,” Marcos answered, lifting his gaze to Zalaz's face, “They have known for the last three years.” Zalaz's eyebrows went up with amazement. “It is Julara's will that we have come together,” Marcos said.
“And Ashur?” Zalaz said. Marcos looked down at the plate again. “The gods have willed this,” Zalaz said slowly, “You are sure of it?” Marcos didn't answer and Zalaz leaned forward. He gripped Marcos' left wrist hard and the priest-king looked up. Terror and desperation warred in the priest-king's eyes. Zalaz frowned. “Tell me,” he said, “What were the signs of it?”
“The stars,” Marcos replied, “It was the stars.” Zalaz let go of Marcos' wrist. “When Mina became high priestess, the three stars aligned,” Marcos said, a curious sense of lightness stealing into him as he spoke, “The book of Ashur spoke of a lion coming to the couch of Julara and Ashur a year later. That was when Sorenan took my place in Mina's bed on the journey to Malath. It was a ruse to deceive Omurath's assassin. Somehow, on that journey, he became more then a shield between Mina and Omurath. He...” Marcos' words failed him and he dropped his head into his hands and wept.
Zalaz regarded him solemnly. He knew that the other council members would be furious. As much as he disliked Marcos and his timidness, Zalaz couldn't help the sense of compassion that rose in his breast for the situation Marcos was in. If he was honest with himself, Zalaz would admit that he felt a measure of envy for Marcos, Mina, and Sorenan. They were at least living true to their hearts' urgings. Zalaz sighed.
“The council will not be pleased,” he said tiredly. Marcos's tears moved Zalaz as much as they made him want to shake the timid man and demand he snap out of it. Zalaz thought of Yaeli. She would not forgive him if he turned away from Marcos in this hour of need, especially under these circumstances. “I will do what I can,” Zalaz said. Marcos lifted his head, gratitude shining in his face. “You, however,” he said, “Owe me a debt of my choosing.”
Marcos opened his mouth to thank Zalaz when the general lifted his hand. “Do not thank me,” he said as he pointed to the woman who stepped into the doorway across the courtyard from them, “Thank her.” Zalaz stood, disregarding proper manners and waiting for Marcos to rise. As the general stepped away from him, he said, “The king is not the only one with a secret. Go, return to your lion and bride. I will send word in three days.”
Thursday, October 30, 2014
The Sons of Omurath
Sorenan and Marcos regarded each other over the map that Mina had spread upon
her desk. The warrior and the priest again questioned if the
capricious gods had put them into the situation for the sole purpose
of watching them fight. As though knowing the other's thoughts, both
men sighed and turned their attention back to the map. “Althar
is in Selath,” Sorenan said, “Abraxas would not have lied to me
about this.”
“How are you so sure of this?” Marcos said in a testy tone of voice, “That man talks out both sides of his mouth and his ass. He's possibly the biggest crook of all the merchants from the south. Just last week he...”
Sorenan reached into his pocket and slapped the amulet he had taken off Abraxas onto the table in the middle of the map. Marcos looked down at the gilded brass and blinked. Abraxas always wore the thing and was rumored to sleep with it. While he was reluctant to touch it, the priest could read the glyphs of the desert dweller's gods. “You didn't kill him, did you?” Marcos said, concerned that the curse against one who harmed the wearer was going to roll over them.
Sorenan snorted. “No,” he scoffed, “I just took it. And I didn't let the fat bastard choke to death. I'm a regular humanitarian.” Sorenan looked over at Mina, who was dipping a fingertip into her cool tea. “He gave up the information but only for the opportunity to sell your order veils,” he said apologetically. Mina waved a dismissive hand and resumed tracing an intricate sigil on the surface of her cold cup of tea.
“And the sons of Omurath? Are you sure that they're not just trying to play to Althar's greed and get him to go on a raiding campaign, because they've done that...” Marcos demanded. He fell quiet when Mina placed a hand on his right arm. The priest-king of Dacia looked over at his wife. “We need to be sure before we act,” he said, “I can't commit troops to going after them if we don't have proof. There will be rebellion in the ranks if it happens.”
“Omurath's sons are a threat to us,” Mina said, “They have worked to destabilize Dacia for years. I was foolish to think that they would have forgotten us when they went away to Selath. You both know, as well as I do, that given the chance, they would burn Dacia to the ground just out of spite. My rejection of their father when he came for my hand laid the seeds of this mess. Omurath wanted to control Dacia and the floodplain. Now his sons seek it.”
“Julara would not allow them success,” Marcos said firmly, “She wouldn't.”
Mina looked at Marcos. “Julara's will is carried out by the actions of men, Marcos,” she said, “It will be a matter of weeks until we possibly see an army camped outside the walls. We should take that time to prepare.”
Marcos frowned down at the map. He looked over at Sorenan, who was running a hand through his shaggy blond hair. “And you?” Marcos said, suspecting he knew Sorenan's thoughts on the matter already. The priest-king did not want to ready his garrison for war. He did not want the waves of anxiety to roll through his city or to see the prosperous bazaar close. He preferred the current peace and calm.
Sorenan looked over at Marcos. His green eyes gazed deeply into Marcos's brown ones and he could see the fear buried within. Sorenan felt disappointed, for he had hoped that Marcos would have proven less like Abraxas. The man's disappointment briefly flashed across his face before he looked down at the map. “I believe the only way to secure peace is to prepare for war,” he answered, moving Abraxas' amulet aside. “Althar has a war party of several hundred strong if Abraxas is not exaggerating,” Sorenan continued, “If he succeeds in raising the sons of Omurath to his cause, he will gain several thousand men with them. And what ever allies they have as well. Include the tribesmen of the north and it may be enough men to take Dacia.”
Marcos' shoulders drooped in an expression of defeat. “Lycina is on her way to the cities of Halthor and Morvia,” Mina said, lifting her cup of tea to her lips, “This will bring us three thousand men. I have taken the liberty of sending messengers to the cities of Niad and Malath on the plain. It will take longer for them to arrive but if Althar does not move towards us within the month, it will give them enough time for at least the beginnings of Halthor and Morvia's forces to reach us.”
Marcos stiffened at Mina's words. He turned, his eyes opening wide with anger. As he drew breath to demand why Mina did not consult him, Sorenan spoke. “We have other problems aside from Althar and the sons of Omurath,” he said, “Rumors have spread through the city about us. And they are very close to the truth.” Marcos's outraged argument died on his lips as he paled.
“General Zalaz will …” he started in a quiet voice when Mina interrupted him.
“He will not be a problem. There will be no rebellion,” Mina said, “We are doing the will of Julara. Even in our relationship. If it was not, then it would not have happened. She will provide for our needs. Before we address Althar's problem, we shall call the council together.”
“And then what?” Sorenan said, doing his best to ignore the sinking feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach.
“I will tell them what Julara commands and they will obey it,” Mina said mildly, sipping from her tea. Marcos gave a pained groan and ran his hands through his dark hair. He turned to Mina.
“You can't...” he started when Mina slammed her cup down on the desk hard enough to slosh out nearly half of her tea.
“Do not tell me what I can not do,” she said in a harsh tone, “Your rights may be that you determine what becomes of the city and the empire in the civil way. You may have rule over the empire and city in times of war. But you will not command me like some common chit.”
“Marcos,” Sorenan said as Marcos stared at Mina aghast with shock. Sorenan reached over and pulled the map away from the spreading pool of tea. “Marcos,” he said again, his tone a bit harder. Marcos looked over at Sorenan. It was clear that he was stunned and wounded by Mina's harsh words. “Go to Jorn,” he said, “I'll be along shortly.” Marcos looked back as Mina, who stared out the window. She was rigid with anger and Marcos questioned if it was with him. Silently, Marcos left the room and shut the door behind him."He will stand,” Sorenan said after the door shut, “Even if I have to put a pole up his ass to give him a backbone.” Mina said nothing. “The council will not be pleased,” he said.
“Let them be angered,” Mina said, “They have done nothing but whine about taxes and the price of grain. When they're not doing that, they're busy with their damned games. We have done no wrong. I will not keep silent any longer. If they know, then they know.”
Sorenan moved around the desk and behind Mina. As he set his hands on her shoulders, he could feel the tension running through her. The strain of keeping their relationship silent had worn mightily on her. Sorenan suspected that this was the reason for her anger, not the business of Althar and his companions. “I know that,” he said, “Marcos does as well.”
“Marcos does not,” Mina snapped, “He worries all the damned time what people will say. He...”
“Is afraid for you,” Sorenan interrupted her, “The temple is not bristling with arms and men. He worries that the council will put word out into the city and people will fall upon you. You are breaking tradition and the council...”
“Are a bunch of old men who can't see farther then their collective nose,” Mina said bitterly.
“That may be,” Sorenan replied, “But his fears are reasonable. I can not be with you at all times. If I can just walk in to the sanctuary, so can any other man.” Mina's shoulders sagged with defeat. Sorenan placed a kiss on the top of her head. “The council will not be pleased,” he murmured.
“Let them be angered,” Mina muttered, “I fear no man.”
Sorenan chuckled. “I did not say you did,” he replied.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Part One: Abraxas & Sorenan
Part Two: Sorenan & Mina
“How are you so sure of this?” Marcos said in a testy tone of voice, “That man talks out both sides of his mouth and his ass. He's possibly the biggest crook of all the merchants from the south. Just last week he...”
Sorenan reached into his pocket and slapped the amulet he had taken off Abraxas onto the table in the middle of the map. Marcos looked down at the gilded brass and blinked. Abraxas always wore the thing and was rumored to sleep with it. While he was reluctant to touch it, the priest could read the glyphs of the desert dweller's gods. “You didn't kill him, did you?” Marcos said, concerned that the curse against one who harmed the wearer was going to roll over them.
Sorenan snorted. “No,” he scoffed, “I just took it. And I didn't let the fat bastard choke to death. I'm a regular humanitarian.” Sorenan looked over at Mina, who was dipping a fingertip into her cool tea. “He gave up the information but only for the opportunity to sell your order veils,” he said apologetically. Mina waved a dismissive hand and resumed tracing an intricate sigil on the surface of her cold cup of tea.
“And the sons of Omurath? Are you sure that they're not just trying to play to Althar's greed and get him to go on a raiding campaign, because they've done that...” Marcos demanded. He fell quiet when Mina placed a hand on his right arm. The priest-king of Dacia looked over at his wife. “We need to be sure before we act,” he said, “I can't commit troops to going after them if we don't have proof. There will be rebellion in the ranks if it happens.”
“Omurath's sons are a threat to us,” Mina said, “They have worked to destabilize Dacia for years. I was foolish to think that they would have forgotten us when they went away to Selath. You both know, as well as I do, that given the chance, they would burn Dacia to the ground just out of spite. My rejection of their father when he came for my hand laid the seeds of this mess. Omurath wanted to control Dacia and the floodplain. Now his sons seek it.”
“Julara would not allow them success,” Marcos said firmly, “She wouldn't.”
Mina looked at Marcos. “Julara's will is carried out by the actions of men, Marcos,” she said, “It will be a matter of weeks until we possibly see an army camped outside the walls. We should take that time to prepare.”
Marcos frowned down at the map. He looked over at Sorenan, who was running a hand through his shaggy blond hair. “And you?” Marcos said, suspecting he knew Sorenan's thoughts on the matter already. The priest-king did not want to ready his garrison for war. He did not want the waves of anxiety to roll through his city or to see the prosperous bazaar close. He preferred the current peace and calm.
Sorenan looked over at Marcos. His green eyes gazed deeply into Marcos's brown ones and he could see the fear buried within. Sorenan felt disappointed, for he had hoped that Marcos would have proven less like Abraxas. The man's disappointment briefly flashed across his face before he looked down at the map. “I believe the only way to secure peace is to prepare for war,” he answered, moving Abraxas' amulet aside. “Althar has a war party of several hundred strong if Abraxas is not exaggerating,” Sorenan continued, “If he succeeds in raising the sons of Omurath to his cause, he will gain several thousand men with them. And what ever allies they have as well. Include the tribesmen of the north and it may be enough men to take Dacia.”
Marcos' shoulders drooped in an expression of defeat. “Lycina is on her way to the cities of Halthor and Morvia,” Mina said, lifting her cup of tea to her lips, “This will bring us three thousand men. I have taken the liberty of sending messengers to the cities of Niad and Malath on the plain. It will take longer for them to arrive but if Althar does not move towards us within the month, it will give them enough time for at least the beginnings of Halthor and Morvia's forces to reach us.”
Marcos stiffened at Mina's words. He turned, his eyes opening wide with anger. As he drew breath to demand why Mina did not consult him, Sorenan spoke. “We have other problems aside from Althar and the sons of Omurath,” he said, “Rumors have spread through the city about us. And they are very close to the truth.” Marcos's outraged argument died on his lips as he paled.
“General Zalaz will …” he started in a quiet voice when Mina interrupted him.
“He will not be a problem. There will be no rebellion,” Mina said, “We are doing the will of Julara. Even in our relationship. If it was not, then it would not have happened. She will provide for our needs. Before we address Althar's problem, we shall call the council together.”
“And then what?” Sorenan said, doing his best to ignore the sinking feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach.
“I will tell them what Julara commands and they will obey it,” Mina said mildly, sipping from her tea. Marcos gave a pained groan and ran his hands through his dark hair. He turned to Mina.
“You can't...” he started when Mina slammed her cup down on the desk hard enough to slosh out nearly half of her tea.
“Do not tell me what I can not do,” she said in a harsh tone, “Your rights may be that you determine what becomes of the city and the empire in the civil way. You may have rule over the empire and city in times of war. But you will not command me like some common chit.”
“Marcos,” Sorenan said as Marcos stared at Mina aghast with shock. Sorenan reached over and pulled the map away from the spreading pool of tea. “Marcos,” he said again, his tone a bit harder. Marcos looked over at Sorenan. It was clear that he was stunned and wounded by Mina's harsh words. “Go to Jorn,” he said, “I'll be along shortly.” Marcos looked back as Mina, who stared out the window. She was rigid with anger and Marcos questioned if it was with him. Silently, Marcos left the room and shut the door behind him."He will stand,” Sorenan said after the door shut, “Even if I have to put a pole up his ass to give him a backbone.” Mina said nothing. “The council will not be pleased,” he said.
“Let them be angered,” Mina said, “They have done nothing but whine about taxes and the price of grain. When they're not doing that, they're busy with their damned games. We have done no wrong. I will not keep silent any longer. If they know, then they know.”
Sorenan moved around the desk and behind Mina. As he set his hands on her shoulders, he could feel the tension running through her. The strain of keeping their relationship silent had worn mightily on her. Sorenan suspected that this was the reason for her anger, not the business of Althar and his companions. “I know that,” he said, “Marcos does as well.”
“Marcos does not,” Mina snapped, “He worries all the damned time what people will say. He...”
“Is afraid for you,” Sorenan interrupted her, “The temple is not bristling with arms and men. He worries that the council will put word out into the city and people will fall upon you. You are breaking tradition and the council...”
“Are a bunch of old men who can't see farther then their collective nose,” Mina said bitterly.
“That may be,” Sorenan replied, “But his fears are reasonable. I can not be with you at all times. If I can just walk in to the sanctuary, so can any other man.” Mina's shoulders sagged with defeat. Sorenan placed a kiss on the top of her head. “The council will not be pleased,” he murmured.
“Let them be angered,” Mina muttered, “I fear no man.”
Sorenan chuckled. “I did not say you did,” he replied.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Part One: Abraxas & Sorenan
Part Two: Sorenan & Mina
Wednesday, October 22, 2014
The Deer of Evandar
 |
| From Wikipedia |
They are a staple of the Evandari diet. Under the reign of Erian the Hero and previous High Kings of the Seven Kingdoms, deer were considered to be fit for nobles and freed men alike to hunt. With the reign of Askemb the Usurper, deer have become the province of solely noble hunting. Albino deer are taken down but they are generally given as offerings in the temples of the god Sigurt. This is because the albino deer are considered to be descendants of the stag that Sigurt incarnated as at the beginning of the world.
Specialized rituals in the handling of the heart of deer have evolved in Aethelmer and Ackmere. The heart is considered the seat of the deer's soul and thus is offered to Sigurt after being prepared for consumption. Only nobles and priests are permitted to consume the hearts of regular deer. Albino deer hearts are solely consumed by the regional high priests of the gods. The rest of the normal deer is consumed as is typical for medieval period usage of deer. Albino deer meet is used only by the household of priests. The skin and other deer products are crafted into items used by the priests of Evandar.
The deer of Dakon-Bar are of such abundance that the herds were maintained by the regular hunting by men due to a lack of natural predators. Some people have begun the attempt of domesticating deer but with little success. Rumors abound within Dakon-Bar that the fabled Grey Lady of the Wood has a connection with all the wildlife of the vast forest. As such, stories of her riding the deer as one would a horse or having a chariot pulled by them are told.
In Tarsus, deer became progressively more scarce as one moved farther north from Dakon-Bar because the predator population increased with the distance from Dragonwood forest. Deer do not form a primary part of the Tarsian diet. This place is taken over by sheep and goat. They are, however, considered a delicacy and generally the food of the wealthy.
Sunday, October 19, 2014
New material coming soon!
I apologize for this blog being so quiet for so very long. Starting this week, I will be posting new material about the little world and continuing the story of Sorenan and Mina. One may be curious about the location of this story in relation to the places I speak of in my novels. This will be revealed as well as more about the nations surrounding Evandar.
It is my hope that you, my readers, will find this little world a place of richness, beauty, and powerful humanity. While some authors would discourage others from playing in their little worlds, I encourage it. All I ask is for there to be proper attribution and for you to follow canon. The world of Evandar has been my private playground ever since I was a child.
The reason why I am writing this series of books and I have this blog is very simple. I wish to share my little world with the 'real' world. It is my firm belief that the world of Evandar can be a place where we can explore what it means to be human and what our relationship with the world is. Philosophical questions like where did we originate and what is the purpose of life are themes that I want to see explored fully.
They are a task beyond my own measure. Thus, I open my arms and my little world to you, dear readers, so that you might help me with my quest. If you are interested in guest posting on here, please contact me.
The Umbrel Chronicles of Evandar are but the first steps of a very long journey. Come, join me and see what wonders await.
It is my hope that you, my readers, will find this little world a place of richness, beauty, and powerful humanity. While some authors would discourage others from playing in their little worlds, I encourage it. All I ask is for there to be proper attribution and for you to follow canon. The world of Evandar has been my private playground ever since I was a child.
The reason why I am writing this series of books and I have this blog is very simple. I wish to share my little world with the 'real' world. It is my firm belief that the world of Evandar can be a place where we can explore what it means to be human and what our relationship with the world is. Philosophical questions like where did we originate and what is the purpose of life are themes that I want to see explored fully.
They are a task beyond my own measure. Thus, I open my arms and my little world to you, dear readers, so that you might help me with my quest. If you are interested in guest posting on here, please contact me.
The Umbrel Chronicles of Evandar are but the first steps of a very long journey. Come, join me and see what wonders await.
Sunday, August 31, 2014
Book Excerpt: Shadow Fall
From the third book of the Umbrel Chronicles of Evandar, a work in progress:
“The letter spoke
of her coming death but I refused to believe it. It said that you,
the son of Agathe would have seen one of the many faces of evil. I
assumed that meant the war and perhaps a glimpse of Askemb. You speak
of this 'veiled one' with fear in your voice. Agathe's line is not
known for fearing shadows,” Abelard said slowly, “Does this
'veiled one' still walk among the living? What manner of man is he?”
Some of the knot
that coiled in Douglas's guts eased as he realized that Abelard
believed him. When Abelard posed his question regarding the Veiled
One, Douglas's guts knotted up again. He could nearly see the woman's
near perfect face and snow white skin. The mercenary shuddered
despite himself as he tried to put the memory of her cold, cold eyes
out of his mind.
“She is dead, at
least in body,” Douglas said quietly, reluctant to speak about her
for fear of that cold creature's specter drawing near to him, “When
Askemb put the head of Erian into her hands, she burst into flame. I
want to say that lightning struck her but it was so sudden that I can
not be sure. The woman was some kind of witch. Osric, Morguthu's
white priest, came out of the fens of the Darklands with her at his
side when he had gone into that cursed place alone except for his
guide. The guide did not come back.”
Douglas ran his
hands over his forearms, suddenly feeling chilled. “Many a man died
for her blood magic,” he said, “Others said they deserted but I
know differently. I saw one night when she took a man into her tent.
At dawn, he did not emerge. I had men keeping watch on that tent
through the night. That man vanished.”
As Douglas spoke,
Abelard's expression became less guarded and he began to nod
slightly. “You are truly the man that her Ladyship wrote of. You
marched with the enemy, but were not truly of his number,” Abelard
said after a few minutes of silence. Abelard leaned slightly to the
right and made a come hither gesture.
Douglas turned to
find Alcuin entering in the room. He had a small wrapped parcel in
his hand. “Queen Asriel sent this,” Abelard explained, “She
said that you would have need of it. It was a strange thing for her
to send. Before Alcuin gives it to you, though, tell me who sent you
and what became of the Little Queen? It has been long since I have
been at court. The last I saw the girl, she was but a babe in arms.”
“The Forest-father
sent us and she is under his care,” Cynehilde answered and Abelard
gave her a wry look. Something akin to distaste flickered over the
man's features before he sighed. Cynehilde felt her chest tighten and
then anger flooded through her veins at the thought that this
doddering old man would scorn the former prince of Tarsus and the
reason why Dragonwood was beginning to keep some measure of law. “The
High King thought him more then suitable,” Cynehilde started and
Abelard lifted a hand with another sigh.
“What is done is
done. I will trust that the High King and his Queen were wise in this
matter as they had been in others. The Usurper will not think to look
for the Little Queen in the wood. He will search all of Dakon-bar,
but the deep wood keeps her secrets,” Abelard said, sounding
exhausted. He gestured that Alcuin give Douglas the wrapped item.
The big man took it
in his hands and turned it over. The leather wrapping seemed hastily
done. For a moment, Douglas questioned if the object had been opened.
Abelard said, “If you would be so kind as to open it here. The
Queen's letter was specific and said that only you were to open it.”
Douglas unwrapped
the item and then dropped it to the ground with a gasp of surprise.
The broad steel arrowhead that he had affixed to his arrows clattered
at his feet. He stepped back, his eyes wide with horror. The startled
man dropped the bit of leather that had been wrapped about it and as
it fell a narrow ribbon of parchment fluttered free. His arrowheads
were unique for they all had a maker's mark upon them. It was
something that he insisted upon.
Winking up at him
from the ground was the arrow with the bindrune that served as the
maker's mark for the last blacksmith he saw. There was no way that
she could have sent him that or have known who had made his
arrowheads unless some form of magic was involved. Abelard and his
man looked at Douglas in confusion as Cynehilde stooped and picked up
the bit of parchment.
She looked at it and
recognized Asriel's hasty handwriting. Cynehilde gave a silent prayer
of gratitude that Asriel had insisted upon her learning to read with
her entry into her service. In a low voice, Cynehilde read the dead
woman's words. “Blood magic wrought my death. Blood magic shall
avenge it. Your arrows shall fly ever true, by my blood,” she said.
Abelard and Alcuin
looked at each other in askance. Douglas knelt and cautiously picked
up the arrowhead. As his fingertips touched the wedge shaped piece of
metal, an electric thrill ran up his arm. Douglas carefully turned it
over in his hand. He tried to figure out what was different about
this arrowhead compared to the others. Then he realized that the
maker's mark was filled in with something, not merely blackened with
grime. Asriel's words haunted him.
“Heart's blood,”
he murmured. Cynehilde looked at him with a look of compassion. He
looked over at Cynehilde. “What do I do with it?” he said,
confusion and discomfort plain on his face. Cynehilde sighed and
shrugged, at a loss for what to do as well.
“Wear it,”
Abelard said firmly, “It was not long ago that huntsmen wore
talismans. These tattoos are only half of what the huntsmen wore in
my day. Each huntsman also wore a talisman of his first kill.”
Douglas looked down at the arrowhead resting in the palm of his right
hand. He thought about his father and the bear claw that he wore on a
thong until his dying day. Douglas assumed that it was like the
scars, a token of a hunt that nearly killed the tough old man.
“This was not my
first kill,” Douglas said after an uncomfortable silence.
“It is in the
service of the Stag,” said Cynehilde and everyone in the room
looked at her. She set a hand on Douglas's arm. “You served as
Kaileth's hand,” she explained, “It was not the Stag you freed
but rather a hind. And in doing so, you allowed the fawn to reach
safety.” Douglas thought about arguing with Cynehilde's
interpretation of events but the weight of the arrowhead in his palm
made him reconsider.
“Wear it?”
Douglas mused. Abelard tapped his chin and made a thoughtful noise.
Douglas looked over. Abelard made his way up out of his seat and over
to Douglas. He looked down at the arrowhead in the man's hand.
“A man I know owes
me a favor. He can make you something to hold it. It will take a day
or two,” Abelard said, “When he is finished, I will send you into
Ranyth myself. As a messenger of mine to the High Priestess of Roen.
When you reach her, tell her everything that has happened. She was
her Ladyship's foster-mother many years ago. If any can give you
proper advice on how to proceed, it will be her.”
Douglas looked down
at the arrowhead in his hand. A part of him questioned the wisdom of
handing the artifact off. The old man patted the red haired one on
the shoulder with his free hand. “Listen to me, lad,” he said, “I
will see to it that this comes back to your hands. I swear it by the
Stag's blood and breath. When Alcuin comes for you again, it will be
ready. No mere pouch will be fitting for this relic.”
Reluctantly, Douglas
handed the arrowhead over. Abelard took it with a solemn expression.
“Lady Theodonia said that her husband's hand would bring something
from the dead but I never expected this,” he said quietly. At the
mention of the legendary High Priestess of Kaileth, Douglas looked to
Abelard in curiosity. “Lady Theodonia, on the day that Erian was
wedded to Asriel spoke a prophecy. It had three parts. The first was
that Evandar would fall when the Hero's star set. The second part was
that Kaileth would bring to the living the relic of the dead. The
third was that the first to die at the hands of the true enemy would
be the Lady and Lord of Forest Hold.”
“Forest Hold has
no lord,” Cynehilde said firmly, “We are a free people.”
Abelard nodded and tottered his way back to his chair. As he sat
down, he looked at Cynehilde. He thought about how young she and
Douglas seemed. Suddenly, Abelard felt his age and he couldn't help
but feel dread that the coming year was to be his last.
Bereft of heirs or
kinsmen, Abelard had only his household of servants. He looked at
Douglas and realized that if he had taken the prospect of his own
mortality more seriously when he was younger, he would have quite
likely had a son the same age as the man standing before him. Abelard
sighed heavily with regret.
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