SPOILER ALERT! Only read further if you have completely finished Fire's Ruin. The following prologue contains spoilers for that book.
I have so enjoyed the journey of publishing Fire's Ruin and marketing it, and I am trying to finish the second volume (as well as working on a second edition of the first book to correct some small errors).
The sequel to Fire's Ruin has a working title of The Time Thief, and I am very excited to share more of it as it is completed! I have enjoyed writing this part more than most of the chapters I have worked on so far. If you like this, please comment, and I will keep you in mind for my beta reader program if you are interested.
Hope you enjoy this next page in the story of Shalidur!
Prologue
“Highlord, I regret to inform you that your wife passed on to the stars an hour past.”
Eskelldryn Vandeleur sighed slightly, and lowered his head, as Hiriam Fereon, a Heptagon, and one of the best-known doctors in Pyren greeted him in the entrance hall with the sad, but not unexpected news. Furinell had been sick with the sores and shakes for weeks now, and it had been only a matter of time.
The disease was one that held great fear for both high and low. There was no cure, and few survived it. It was believed to spread by the touch of one who had it, making most doctors unwilling to care for its victims. Hiriam was one of the few exceptions, one of the rare few who had survived the disease, as shown by the ring-like scars on his face. If someone could live through it, they need never fear its touch again. Perhaps fate respected the tenacious.
This was one reason Eskelldryn had not been by his wife’s side when she passed. The other was that he had used much of his time and resources to search for a cure.
The foray he was returning from had been to a spring touted for its healing properties. He had gone with little hope, but his wife had requested it, and so he had gone in person, rather than send a servant. He wondered now if she had been so adamant so as to have him gone when she passed; that would be like her, but he would never know now.
“I thank you for your efforts on her behalf, Doctor Fereon. I will see to it that you are rewarded for your care of my wife these past few weeks.”
Hiriam nodded in appreciation. As a Circle, even though not of the royal family, Eskelldryn was a wealthy and powerful man. The fact that he was grateful for his efforts, rather than vengeful for his failure, was a true source of relief for the doctor. Also, a Circle had the right to demand any service of any person of lower standing than them and were not strictly required by law to pay.
“I urge you not to go into the room until it has been purified,” the doctor said gently. “It has been known for the healthy to catch the disease even after the ill has passed on. I personally carried the highlady’s body to the pyre, but the bed and other furnishings must be let to sit undisturbed for a month before they are safe for a common workman to dispose of.”
Eskelldryn nodded, only half listening. His wife of nearly sixty-four longings was dead, and a large part of him longed to climb into bed with her corpse and join her in death. What else was there to do? Yet he was too late to do even that, with her body already prepared for burning, as the law required of all with such a dreaded disease, even a Circle.
However high he and his kind were, even they were not masters of death.
* * * * *
Eskelldryn stood with his sons, Hartheldar, Rylleon, Faridin, Seireo, and Paradon, and his daughters, Taurafel and Celestra. The cold night air was spattered with occasional cold, heavy drops of rain, and an occasional distant flash of lighting and its accompanying crash. They stood some thirty paces back from the raised pyre of the highlord’s wife and his children’s mother. The corpse, covered in tar to aid in its swift immolation, sputtered occasionally from the rain, but most of the sound was the hungry lick of the flames, consuming not only the body and its wrappings but also the heart of the family that was ringed around it.
Eskelldryn looked around at his children in a brief moment of lucidity, his otherwise grief-drunken mind clear enough to consider what their future held. He could not see himself going back to his duties as the head of such an old and revered family, one that dated back to the Founding of Haelfaen itself; that role would go to Hartheldar as the eldest son, though in truth he was only fit for womanizing and carousing.
Rylleon had the mind to lead, keen and sharp as a well-honed sword, but his heart was as black as his coat; there was no pity in the man who had just entered his third decade. Plotting was as natural to him as breathing, and he cared little for how he achieved his ends.
So Eskelldryn went down through his children. All seven had been disappointments to him and Furinell, though some more bitter ones than others. None had lived up to their parent's dreams, and now Eskelldryn had to wonder if, with seven chances, the fault had been with him and not the children. It certainly hadn’t been from lack of effort on the part of his departed wife - he thought he had never met someone so patient and long-suffering.
For a moment more he spared a thought to what would become of his house and his line, and he found he couldn’t care; it wasn’t worth the energy.
With the joint crash of thunder and the raised pyre collapsing to the ground, Highlord Vandeleur let his emotions tumble with the coals and embers, and he turned and walked away, not toward the manor, but into the night, neither knowing nor caring where his feet might take him.
* * * * *
The next few months were a blur for Eskelldryn. He spent much of his time wandering the streets of Pyren and its suburbs, though what he was looking for he couldn’t say. He had no appetite for anything: not the food of the street vendors, not the brews of the pubs or taverns, and certainly not the services offered by the tarts and strumpets who were brash enough to approach one of his birthstation. They were a mixture of the youngest, fairest, and most skilled in their craft, as no others would dare to risk the displeasure of a Circle should they not have what that man wanted and be cast into prison or branded as the law allowed. But Eskelldryn didn’t even have the energy of soul to be indignant at their explicit propositions - he just brushed them aside and continued on his way, sometimes dropping a coin or two to get them to stop long enough for him to escape.
He had taken to filling his pockets with money when he left before dawn each morning, and they were often empty by the time he returned after half the night had already passed. Sometimes he didn’t even bother to go home for a day or two, instead crashing at whatever inn he happened to be near when his legs could carry him no further in his circuitous meanderings. He ate even less than he slept, and his once well-tailored clothes hung loose on his tall, gaunt frame. Little if any of his money went to food or lodging, most instead was left on his path, dropped in the gutter for this urchin or that beggar, anything not to be bothered by another living soul while surrounded by so many thousands of them.
He would later wonder how he was not mugged and relieved of all he had, including his life, but perhaps it was still the mystique and fear that his Tier carried with them as near gods, even after nearly a millennia had passed from the Founding that placed them as the undisputed heads of the country at the center of the world. Whatever the reason, he didn’t care - about that or anything else.
* * * * *
Some months had passed since Furinell’s death, and Paragon had recently died in a nasty fall from a horse. Eskelldryn was sad, but even this tragedy couldn’t pull him out of the black coal pit his mind was in. Nor could the constant fighting and jockeying for position that his other children were engaged in. He couldn’t find it in him to care, much less do anything to fight against it.
The past months were a blur, with only snippets to let him know where he had wandered. Today he was in a thrall slum some miles from his estate. The tenements were tall and rickety, with each level slightly larger than the one below it; he had heard once that this was so each story could more easily throw their waste onto the street below. It worked out fine, except for the ones in the street…
The buildings were butted against each other, with few alleyways, and those being narrow enough that he would have brushed both shoulders back in his broader days. Built of old lumber, and patched repeatedly like a vagrant’s old coat, they looked like one more longing storm would topple them all like a pile of children’s bricks.
Heading down the roughly cobbled road as the slum fell away from the city toward the lowlands, Eskelldryn was startled from his stupor by the sounds of singing. He looked up and noticed that the clouds of earlier that day had broken up, leaving the sun to more brilliantly show the filth, squalor, and ugliness of the place he was in. Then, there in the midst of it all, he saw the source of the music. It was a thrall woman, maybe in her early-thirties, seated on the doorstep of a nearby tenement, her sewing laid across her lap, working away with a bone needle and a thread, and singing and smiling all the while.
Eskelldryn was stunned by the sight of her. Her hair was long and free, with the slightest auburn tint to its brown color. Her eyes glistened with unfettered cheerfulness, and there was a smile on her slender face as she sang. He was unfamiliar with the tune, but it was catchy, and one that would not have been out of place in a party or social gathering at his fine estate; but here, in the midst of the smell, dirt, and poverty that prevailed, it was like seeing a finely cut gemstone in a pile of dung.
So entranced was he with the sight of her that he tripped on the edge of a loose cobble, nearly falling, and making a fair clatter in his attempts to remain upright. The thrall seamstress looked up, her song coming to an abrupt end.
“Your grace,” she said, beginning to rise, “are you all right?”
“No, I’m f-f-fine,” he said, gesturing quickly for her to remain seated, and internally shocked at his stutter - he was not one to be caught off-guard by anyone, whether in his younger days in battle or in the King’s court. “Forgive my startling of you.”
“There’s nothing to forgive, your grace,” she said with a laugh as musical as her song.
Eskelldryn was amazed; this thrall woman showed him respect, but neither fear nor fawning. That was rare enough even among other Tiers.
“What is your name…” He realized that he had no term in his vocabulary to address a thrall woman with respect. It struck him as embarrassing, both that one didn’t exist, and that he had never thought of it before.
The woman seemed to sense his befuddlement and came to his rescue. “My name is Taa, your grace.”
“Eskelldryn,” he responded without thinking. Only after he said it did he realize what he had done. Not only was it a social misstep to introduce himself by his given name, and even introduce himself to a thrall at all, but it was forbidden by The Stations of Men for a thrall to address a highlord or highlady by their given name. “I m-m-mean…” He couldn’t believe how tongue-tied he was.
“It is an honor, your grace,” she said with another radiant smile, rescuing him yet again.
He could feel the beginnings of a flush coming to his face, started to turn away, but then stopped. “I must ask you,” he said, “Why are you so cheerful? I see little to bring happiness here.” He gestured around him.
She looked around as if in happy confusion. “But your grace, there is so much to find joy in. A smile cannot be taxed, and the sunshine cannot be withheld from me based on my birthstation. Truly, in this way, I am the wealthiest of women.”
* * * * *
Back in his own bed for the first time in days, Eskelldryn lay awake, thinking about what Taa had said. How could he, surrounded by more wealth than he could spend in a lifetime of careless abandon be so lost and melancholy, while she, in the humblest of circumstances, required to labor constantly for her survival, and that with the crudest of tools, denied metal needles by the laws of the Founding, appeared more sincerely happy than any highborn he had met in his fifty-two years. It was unsettling, to say the least.
Well, be that as it may, he certainly shouldn’t see her again…
* * * * *
He made it two days before he found himself back on that narrow, twisted street, standing outside of Taa’s door. There he found himself again out of his element, realizing he had never done something so mundane as to knock. Those he visited usually knew long in advance about his coming and welcomed him at their gates. Even when that wasn’t the case, on a visit to another Tier’s estate he would have a lackey to proclaim his arrival. Neither situation applied to him here, and he didn’t even know the right way to knock on a door! It would be socially acceptable for one of his birthstation to just enter and let those inside scramble to serve him, but he felt very uncomfortable with the idea of doing that.
So, hesitantly, he lifted his hand and knocked. It was a little awkward, the volume of each rap was of a different level than the last, and his knuckles came away scuffed from the rough, splintery wood. Any calluses he had built up in his days training and serving in the military as a youth had long since disappeared.
He barely had time to think about this before the door opened. Of course, there wasn’t a metal doorknob, only a leather strap on the outside to lift the latch on the inside. The hinges were also of leather, which made the door not fit perfectly and drag on the rough-hewn floorboards.
Standing in the doorway, gawping at Eskelldryn was a young boy of seven or eight, his right leg in a crude splint, a rough crutch under his left arm. The two of them stared at each other for a few heartbeats, each confused by the presence of the other, though Eskelldryn regained his composure sooner.
“It lady Taa here?” he asked, immediately kicking himself inside for using the title. It didn’t go unnoticed by the lad, who guffawed and said “Ai’t ‘o lady here ‘ister, and beside Taa there be six other women.” Eskelldryn had heard the East-end accent only a few times before, lacking “n” and “m” sounds, but the sentence was easy enough to decipher. Fortunately, he was saved from having to explain himself, figure out how to respond to being referred to as a mister, or continue to participate in the youth’s banter with the arrival of Taa at the doorway from within. She looked even more radiant than the last time he had seen her. She wore the same faded but clean dress, as well as the same charming smile.
“Your grace,” she said with a curtsy. “I am at your service. What brings you to my home?” Eskelldryn noticed half a dozen faces peering around corners to see what was going on, and felt himself growing flush with embarrassment.
“Well, uh,” he began. “I have this shirt I wished to ask you to sew.” He held out the garment.
She took it with a politely quizzical look, no doubt thinking of all the people closer to his home he must have who could do this job.
“It looks like someone cut this spot with a knife,” she said upon examining it. He flushed even more; he had in fact done just that this morning after not being able to find a garment of his with so much as a run in it. Comprehension dawned on her face, and in a glance, an understanding passed between them.
“It would be my pleasure to mend this for you, your grace,” she said with a smile. “Might you return on the morrow so that I can return it to you?”
“Of course. Thank you.” With that, he turned and nearly ran, and he could have sworn that he heard that young boy laugh as he retreated back the way he came.
* * * * *
Another longing came and went. Eskelldryn and Taa spent nearly every day together, discussing everything under the moons. He told her of his marriage and his children. She told him of her family, all of whom had passed away from accident or disease. He was amazed by how she could handle all the tragedy life had thrown her way. She would explain that her family members were in the stars, which was surely a better place. That may have been a common phrase, but she actually meant it.
One day, when leaving Taa, they having shared their first kiss, an experience that he had forgotten the wonder of when he ran into a friend as she turned to leave. It was Felrodon Helratheer, a fellow Circle.
After some brief pleasantries, Felrodon asked about the obvious smile on Eskelldryn’s face, and the thrall woman he had just seen him with. Eskelldryn ended up telling him about how he met her, and let slip that he had never met anyone quite like Taa. His friend stopped him:
“My friend, I know that you miss your wife. You and she were always uncommonly devoted to each other; it must be hard to be without a companion, and I can certainly see the physical appeal of this thrall woman - she is certainly pretty in her own way.
“Why don’t you make her your mistress? I have a villa in the woods north of the city that I use on occasion for an occasional tryst, and few people know about it. You would be welcome to use it, and I would help keep it quiet.”
Eskelldryn shook his head in disgust, but he knew that Felrodon was like many of his fellow highlords; while Eskelldryn had personally always been true to Furinell and she to him, he knew that wasn’t the case with many of the highborn nobles, and Felrodon was no exception.
“My old friend,” Eskelldryn said with a shake of his head. “I want Taa’s soul, not just her body. Yes, her body is beautiful, but her heart and her goodness are what have made me fall in love with her,”
“Love?!” Felrodon exclaimed in disbelief. “You aren’t a youth anymore; you are a grandfather, and a Circle like me. Have a fling, sow your oats, and then be done with it. But don’t grow attached. Nothing good can come from that.”
“I plan to ask her to marry me,” Eskelldryn said quietly. His companion’s mouth fell open.
“Have you lost our mind?” Felrodon asked just as softly but with an undertone of malice to his shock. “She is a thrall - you are a member of the Highest Tier. Our nobility is sullied if we marry to other quadrants. To join in marriage with a thrall?! We may as well turn our backs on the Founding and do away with the Tiers.”
“Would that be so bad?” Eskelldryn asked, realizing with some surprise just how much he meant it. How love can change the hearts and minds of those it affects!
Felrodon turned white, and then red, backing away and shaking his head. “I don’t know you. You are no friend of mine, nor of Haelfaen, and I will see to it that you rue this day.” And with that, he walked away.
* * * * *
Eskelldryn and Felrodon were both as good as their words. Eskelldryn married Taa in a quiet ceremony, unattended by any member of the Tiers, either family or friend. She looked radiant in a simple yet elegant dress, the only gift of the many he offered that she had accepted. He felt happier than he had thought possible.
The two moved into a simple house he purchased for them on the outskirts of the capital. It wasn't two months after that, the same day that Taa told him he would again be a father, that Felrodon came with officers of the law. He had reported his lifelong friend to the king's advisors, and the reclusive ruler had come out of seclusion to pass judgment on the former Highlord Vandeleur.
Eskelldryn was stripped of his Tier, all his possessions, including their home, and any metal; on pain of death, he was now under the same interdiction as the thralls to only touch metal when under the watch of a metalward and in the service of the Tiers.
Through it all, Taa was a perfect support to him. They moved to a coal mining town near the sea, where Eskelldryn received work as a nether-foreman from Highlord Dereis Felco of the Fourth Tier, who though a decade Eskelldryn’s junior had been a friend of his.
Eskelldryn caught bits and pieces of news over the next few months. All his possessions and position had been given to his children, whose infighting had intensified. He heard the news of the deaths of his daughters and younger two surviving sons, and finally, his eldest, Hartheldar, was killed in a fight over a woman at a brothel. This left Rylleon (the only one who had any children) to inherit everything.
The other deaths were passed off as freak accidents and unexplained illnesses, but having spent a lifetime among the sophistries of court and the Tiers, Eskelldryn knew that most if not all of the deaths were assassinations, most likely orchestrated by Rylleon, though maybe not all.
Each piece of news hurt him deeply and left him aged even more than he should have been. He was plagued by doubts at times, wondering if he hadn’t been so caught up in his grief if he would have been able to change the course of things. But he would never know. For now, he was as powerless to stop the tragedies as he was to halt the two moons in the sky.
Then came the day of the birth of his and Taa’s child, in the middle of a longing storm. Covered in coal dust from his shift in the mine, Eskelldryn handed the child, wrapped into a bundle even lighter than he remembered, from the thrall midwife to Taa.
“This one will be a fighter,” said Taa, gazing down at their tiny baby boy. “He isn’t going to leave for the stars easy. We need to remember this day.”
“We will,” said Eskelldryn, looking in turn at his newborn son, still misshapen by the ordeal of birth, and then at his wife, sweaty, flushed, and more radiant than he had ever before seen her, glowing in the light of the miracle that she had just taken part of; no wonder, he thought, that many in Shalidur still referred to birth by the term “to give light” – Taa fairly shone!
“Let’s call him Dhar: the sky,” she suggested.
“No,” he said, shaking his head as he took the small, swaddled bundle into his large, coal-stained hands. “No, he won’t have a thrall’s name, and he won’t be an ordinary thrall. We shall call him ‘Dhakara,’ ‘king of the sky!’”
“Perfect,” said the proud mother, as she looked upon her husband with such love. Never had she loved him as much as she did now, as the former highlord – who had held fortunes, judgment, and armies – now held their infant son.
“Dhakara Vandeleur,” she murmured; the name just sounded right.
No comments:
Post a Comment