 505 A.C. In the beginning . . . The Messenger held no great aspirations for humanity. Half-breed or pure, they were weak; corrupt with emotion. They fought and died over most anything that sparked their ire, and there was limitless hatred in them. If not hatred, then it was love, and all the unpredictable trappings that went with it. Human loyalties ran terribly thin, but of course even his own race had known its betrayals. It would be one such betrayal that had bound him to this world, and in spite of his misgivings, it was a human that would eventually claim the Messenger as friend. Of course, the irony was not lost on him.
As to this friend, the half-breed youth was a prince by birth, but existed at the whim of others. El’Doran Wildheart had been sold for a promise. He lived as a slave and yet the Messenger felt a great loyalty to the boy. Now, the best that could be said was that the boy had died well, but only because his immortal friend had failed in saving him. It was as great a personal loss as the old warrior had ever known. Humans cry, not him, not ever. The Messenger settled himself in the top of the old tree, ignoring the body in the clearing below. The winds whipped wildly, first hard west and then south. Mid morning had come and yet one of the most formidable warriors known to humanity sat idly. Watching. Waiting to lay eyes on the last of the Wildheart line as the remnant of the Third kingdom struggled through the frozen undergrowth below. The cold carried distant sounds of booted feet pressing toward the clearing and the boy. The Messenger could smell the acrid taint of dried blood and cook fires, oil, leather and wool. Those few survivors would pass this way, weary and armed, but it was for her that the Messenger had come so far. He had made a promise to El’Doran, and he would keep it. “Come what may,” he swore, with only the wind to answer in the shadowed canopy. The silence was fitting, considering all of whom had lost their lives this day. Tens of thousands were taken by the sea. The rest would have died in the quakes. Whatever was left would be washing up on beaches planet wide within days, and yet there were so few inclined to mourn the fall of the mighty Third Kingdom. El’Doran had seen it coming long before the earth stirred, and even then he could not stop the destruction of his home land. And while the Wildheart prince dared to hope, prophecy began to pour out in his dreams as an errant stain. That stain became an open sore, and the sore,a fatal wound. The loss of the Third Kingdom was only a beginning. Had the Messenger not seen for himself, he would have never believed, but the boy drew him in; smothering the warrior in the old gift. Together, they watched worlds burn and a universe all but devoid of life. Every living being was either captive or accomplice; whole generations enslaved and suffering. And when the vision faded the Messenger knew fear for the very first time. Now, the warrior could promise little as he huddled in the top of that ancient tree. Only that he had come, and that was well short of remedy. Impatience warred with duty as he leaned outward to spy the first of the survivors nearing the clearing beneath him. He could feel the girl coming near. There was a sudden sweetness to the frozen air, a flower, but one that wields a fragrance as pleasant as it is deadly. Then the Messenger saw her. El’Doran’s sister. Half-breed, widow and warrior. Perhaps the most powerful sorceress to have lived thus far and yet for all her supposed strength she was hunted and now cornered on this lifeless rock. Even some of her own blood would be named among her enemies, if any survived at all. And yet, in spite of every unfortunate thread in the weave of her short life, she was the sun wading in a sea of mere candles. The girl, An’Salona, cradled a swollen belly in one hand, nursing comfort from the blade in her other as those final few broke through the tangle at her back. And that was when the screaming began. The humans huddled nearer to one another, separating servant from soldier. It was An’Salona who raised her hand to quiet them, before she pushed toward the frozen corpse on the mottled, earthen bed. There was a momentary respite with only winter wind. Then, moving nearer to the body, the girl must have recognized her brother’s lifeless face. Suddenly, she threw back her head, her cowl fallen away, and with the beginning of her mournful wail came a tremor that rocked the boughs of the forest, rolling ever outward in a concussive ring. Immediately, every bird and beast jerked free of idle slumber and shot out and away into the cold gray of winter morn. Even the Messenger had to fight to keep his place as the old tree shook with her remorse. She had gone to her knees, gently brushing the boy’s dark ringlets from his grey, sleeping face. Young An’Salona searched the broken youth with unsteady hands, touching the weapon that he cradled in the fold of his arm. The black bone staff was marked in a river of silver, swirling with the ancient tongue written along the length of it. Powerful, forgotten words, yet she knew them, all the same. But when the Wildheart girl searched out her brother’s other hand she discovered the Messenger’s true purpose this day. There was the letter stained with her brother’s blood; the seal,unbroken. Even from such a distance, the Messenger could clearly read El’Doran’s practiced hand where he had addressed his plea to the High Seat and heir to the Third Kingdom’s throne. An’Salona gently brushed at the words with her thumb and then cracked the seal. Inside that singular moment, it seemed the whole universe held a collective breath. The Messenger plucked An’Salona’s quiet words from the winds. The heiress read the fated message once, and then twice, before she lay the letter on the cold, hard earth. There was a stirring in the wood that drew frightened eyes, but An’Salona payed it no mind. Instead, she sat in the dark hollows of her thoughts, nursing her brother’s frozen hand in her own; saying nothing. It was a wizened woman who would resign to step from among the survivors and gently scoop the letter into her own weathered hands. The immortal could hear the old servant inhale as she read El’Doran’s warning. Even the lumbering of her old heart seemed to quicken until it was as thunder in his ears. Then, with some great finality, the first of the prophecy was fulfilled and the letter was folded with great care to be pressed near to her bosom. Slowly, the greying servant went to her knees on the frozen ground with every man, woman and child following. “By the grace of the Almighty,” she began, “I proclaim thee,An’Salona Wildheart, Queen to the remnant of our Third Kingdom!” “It is done,” the Angel intoned, committing the fate of all the worlds to this half-breed human’s hands. He still lacked any great confidence in them, but like it or no, it was up to her and hers, now. The boy had done his part and paid for it with his life. Meanwhile below, no fanfare would follow the old woman’s proclamation. There was only the icy calm of morning and her distant stars, while the storm churned the mighty sea to a boiling froth. A new sun shone weakly across the frozen coast; dew glistening beneath winter’s heavy hand. And while all of creation finally exhaled, the young Wildheart Queen wept for the last of her kin; never seeing as the angel flew toward the winter sun. CHAPTER 1 Rain: A Journey Begun {Year 3135 A.C. Somewhere in the El’Varion Seas} The dream had begun and would end as it always did, with my screams muffled into a fistful of blankets. Thankfully, the visions faded to the simplicity of an early morning glow. But I would do as I had for the last long year, searching the morning shadows in my room for an enemy I could not name. That, and planning my escape just in case. Satisfied that I was alone, I giggled and burst from hiding with a defiant fist raised. The night shirt did little for my pride, but if anything moved I was ready for it. Either way, this was the first waking hour of my seventh year and destined to be the end of life as I knew it. My name is Rain; seven going on seventy-five and hard pressed to put proof to it. Not one whit of my disposition spoke of lace, bows and delicate things. Not this morning, nor any other. Instead, I proudly nursed another scrape from yet another unfortunate fall before planting my feet on the cold plank floor with a huff. Grandmother says I’m a climber, and I don’t think she means it as a compliment. Dirt is good, mud is better, but anytime I get near the wildwood I become a willing victim to the towering trees that stand just beyond my bedroom window. No bough is too high, in fact the taller the tree the better. Not that I don’t get scared, mind you. Sometimes, when I am in the thinning of the tree, and the hand holds are only growing more tenuous, I hear that taunting whisper. If you stop now, you’ll never know, it says. While at the other ear my Grandmother’s shadow looms, warning me that some things will not heal. I, of course, listen to both, climbing with a grain of guilt and a pound of adrenalin filling my veins. The fact that I do fall on occasion only makes the next trip heavenward more thrilling. It was a necessary price to pay, but Grandmother didn’t see it that way at all. Personally, I never understood what the big deal was. I healed almost as quickly as I got hurt. Still, one did not argue with a Heartstone, I would soon learn; and her least of any. On this day, the wind howled angrily outside the walls of our cottage. Even the sound of it was a dull, iron gray. It felt like that cold had found its way into my bones, a counter point to this new fire in my blood. There was an anticipation of something big coming my way, a growing fear that I may regret every longing to escape the quiet of my island home. And then there were those horrible dreams. I shook out my thoughts and shuffled tiredly across the small room, kicking at the various pitfalls strewn about the floor. Bow string, in unwound abundance, tangled itself in my toes. With the string were rounded stones and large splinters of wood. Leaves, clods of dirt and crawling things in covered clay jars. It was a master adventurer’s haven, if ever there was such a thing. But now, those random curiosities collected from the wild, had become as hurdles of diminutive proportion. It was a battlefield of my own making. A treacherous path that I mastered this morning with half-hearted interest. With a desperate lunge to grip the windowsill, I managed to fall gracelessly into my clothes. Meanwhile beyond that pane, the Island was busy sloughing off her myriad of colors for the more somber tones of winter and I longed only for spring. Oh well, I thought. A day as any other . But in truth, I knew better, no sooner had it crossed my mind. The trouble began one year gone. It had been unseasonably warm for Island’s End, that last year. Rains had come and gone with such ferocity and frequency that I was certain the ocean would overflow the towering cliffs, and surprised it never did. But one day in particular, a storm came off the coast and blanketed the heavens in rolling black from end to distant end. Those rains came with the mid day meal, and by nightfall lightning gouged the earth in deafening succession. It was a hair on the side of unusual, but far from unexpected. However, early the next morning Grandmother drug me impatiently out into the sodden cold, mumbling about bad dreams and a certain kind of dread that was creeping around in her bones. I protested atop the thunderous assault, unheard and wishing for the warmth of my covers. Rains came at us all sides, soaking me to the skin beneath my heavy oiled cloak. It was madness to come out in such weather, and I said so as loudly as I was able, but the whirling violence seemed to swallow my every word. So I grumbled dejectedly while the deepest thoughts residing in the realm of my heart thinned in that storm. It seemed as if we stood there forever, Grandmother watching the skies while I complained beneath my cowl. Then with one raucous finale, the drumming rains simply dwindled and died as if on cue. After all that noise, my exclamation seemed a tiny thing. I kept asking Grandmother what was going on, tugging at the hem of her soaked shift, but she only stood and stared open-mouthed at that angry sky. Puzzled and put out, I resorted to counting the stars that peaked from behind a boiling, pallet of black, immediately bored. Grandmother, on the other hand, panted excitedly shushing the most slight of all my exhales. Listening. Watching. Nearly three hundred years of knowledge seemed utterly overshadowed by some impending event. Her ocean-blue eyes danced nervously across the belly of the universe, long white hair a silken sheet lifted on the wind. Then, even the great bellows of the universe were restrained. And that is when I saw it, too. Noticed it, really. Of course, even a blind man would’ve been likely to see it if the whole world stuttered to a halt. The stars. The moon. Nothing moved, not even the wind. The planet was still in the void of the universe. Oh, but the seas? I could hear the El’Varion as if I stood at the drop off and the waters rose up those hundreds of feet to wet the toes of my boots. Perhaps the waves had finally capped the cliffs, for all I would ever know, but once we went back inside, it was many long hours before Grandmother let me out of doors again. For a while, I sat at her muddied feet staring into the fire while she wasted the depths of her thoughts on the eerie quiet. Eventually I slept just to fill the hours. As best I could tell we sat in outer darkness for a full day before the earthquakes began. They were only shivers where we were, high atop so many tons of mountain stone. Hiccups. And short of driving the animals to fits, the shaking did little more than displace a couple of things stored along the shelves in the cottage. But my perception of the matter was not shared by my wizened companion. By then, Grandmother had abandoned silence to mutter angrily over every dusty book in our possession. Then, somewhere along the way, I noticed that letter. It was only a faded yellow length of parchment, but with creases so old that they were permanent and telling in one. A deep red stain had faded where the wax seal had been pressed, matched by a deeper stain that ran along one edge. The corners were weak and worn. That, and the fact that I had never once seen it before, was all it took to elevate the contents of that letter to highest on my list of curiosities. Had I not been there, I was sure she would have sat near to that guttering lamp reading it repeatedly, without pause. But another day, and another still by the cock’s crow, and then the paths of the planets resumed with an almost inaudible groan. Done was done, or so I thought when in truth, it had only just begun. After that, I spent the season surprisingly free of all my normal instruction. There was no poetry deciphered, or spelling exercises. Now, I had graduated to long tales of war and weapons. Histories laden with clan conflict and disputes over everything from land to women. My numbers had been replaced by trajectory and incidentals. Calculations for wind, and woodwarping sun. Languages became marching orders in every dialect I knew. Commands for horse, footmen and archers. Battle plans were mapped out with acorns and stones. The field of destruction was nothing more than the floor of our cottage home but I felt as if I was slowly sinking into new skin. Then came the dreams. Somehow a child’s simple pallet, once painted in mud holes, trees and crawling things had now been twisted into the looming dark of Armageddon. Something slithered through my innocence now. It cut a path at my heels and beat tirelessly at my back. I awoke every morning, grateful to be alive; equally ashamed to be so afraid. Grandmother’s teachings were my saving grace. And when the snows subsided, dwindled and were gone, those lessons became something more. That, in itself, would have to be enough. It was all that I had. ********* AVAILABLE NOW KINDLE & PRINT ********* | 
Δεν υπάρχουν σχόλια:
Δημοσίευση σχολίου