A Lucky Bat Book
The Raie’Chaelia
Book One of the Legend of the Raeie’Chaelia
Copyright 2011 by Melissa Douthit
All rights reserved
Cover Artist:
Charles Nemitz
Published by Lucky Bat Books
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The following story is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and events were fabricated by the author, from the author’s imagination. Any likeness to actual names, people, places, or events is purely coincidental.
With the exception of citation in articles and reviews, this work may not be used, copied, reproduced, printed, forwarded, or circulated in any form without the express written permission of the author. All rights are reserved.
On the morning of 21st of September, 2007, I sat down at my computer with a cup of coffee and clicked a familiar bookmark on my internet browser. The link took me to a website that I knew well. In doing so, I learned that one of my favorite authors had passed away. His name was James Oliver Rigney, Jr., also known as Robert Jordan. The website was www.dragonmount.com.
Ever since I was seventeen, I have been reading his epic fantasy series, The Wheel of Time. I remember buying the first book, The Eye of the World, from a local bookstore and rushing home to read it. I remember it like it was yesterday. To this day, after twenty-one years, I am still reading his series as it quickly draws to a conclusion in its final completion by Brandon Sanderson.
I never thought I could be a writer given that my talents lie in other areas, mostly in mathematics and science, but when I learned of Jordan’s passing, I decided to start writing a story that I had been tossing around in my head for a while. The ideas were there but the realization of those ideas into a book was a problem. I didn’t believe that I could do it. So, that morning, inspired by Jordan’s life story, I sat down and started typing. I soon found that by having read his books, as well as many others by other authors, the writing came naturally and the words flowed. The following novel is the result of that day.
Now, three years later, my first novel has been published. It is a novel with both a storyline and a background theme. The ideas for the story were conceived out of a desire to write a fantasy that was different from any other I had read in the past. The entire story required a few years to fully develop, but I believe I have achieved my original intention — keeping it different. I am hoping that you, its reader, will feel that difference and love it.
As you read, you may come across language, names, or terminology in the text that appear out of place or anachronistic. They are not. There is a reason for them that will become more clear as the story progresses. In fact, almost every detail in the novel has a purpose, from the intricately-drawn scenery in the beginning to the hair color of the heroine of the story. Again, those purposes will become clearer later on.
Thank you for reading my story. I hope you enjoy it.
Very Respectfully,
Melissa Douthit
In Memoriam
James Oliver Rigney, Jr.
October 17, 1948 to September 16, 2007
A good man and a great writer
May he rest in peace
Acknowledgements
If it wasn’t for the help, support, and inspiration of the following people, this book would not exist: Ian Derrick and Zack Christensen who were the first to read the story and believe in it. Samantha Derrick for her support. Cindie Geddes for all her information, services and support. Judith Harlan for her editorial review, support and information. Charles Nemitz for his artwork. All of the professionals at Lucky Bat Books who made the publication of this book possible. All of the professional authors of the Superstars Writing Seminar for their advice, help, and support: Kevin Anderson, Rebecca Moesta, Dave Wolverton, Brandon Sanderson, Eric Flint, Tracy Hickman, and Sherrilyn Kenyon. All of the members of the Superstars Writers’ Group for their advice and support. Kris Rusch and Dean Smith for their blogs, help and advice. Robert Jordan for his inspiration and Harriet McDougal for her help and advice. Finally, a special thanks goes to Angel, Dave, and Bronwen.
I would also like to thank Andrea Bocelli for his song, Canto Della Terra, and Enya and AC/DC for their music that served as an inspiration for much that is written in this book.
Table of Contents
The Raie’Chaelia
Book One of the Legend of the Raie’Chaelia
by Melissa Douthit
Prologue
Waves pounded the shoreline, spraying mist into the wind that stirred white sands glittering in the moonlight. A dark ship with dark sails, anchored in the reef, swayed with the movement of the water and the wind. In the distance, black, threatening thunder clouds roiled in the sky over the ocean, hurling fierce lightning bolts through the rain. It was a magnificent storm that was swiftly approaching.
From the glistening beach, moist air blew upwards, carrying the ocean’s salt toward a towering cliff. Wind in the subterranean caverns that wove deeply into the heart of the land whistled a musical sound that echoed through the winding passages, falling just short of discovering underground secrets that were lost to the ages. Outside, the sea spray floated up the side of a cliff that ended at the foot of colossal walls of a great, white palace. Constructed of a series of concentric towers, the palace was resplendent, even in the night. The constant touch of wind, sand, and water, never dulled its shine.
The salty mist came to settle upon a foreboding scene in the inner garth of the keep, the highest structure. On the dais, in the middle of the courtyard, lay a fair-haired, bearded man chained to a marble altar. A man in black stood just above him facing the front of a ring of spectators who were lingering in the shadows. The man in black was tall and broad, with thick black hair that was sleeked back from his brow and reached just under his ears. His dark eyebrows slanted menacingly and his thin mustache curled slightly upwards at the corners of his mouth. He appeared anxious. His eyes combed the light of the torches that spotted the mantlet wall of the ward, as if he were looking for minute cracks in it that held the answer. The man on the altar appeared calm but his fatigue, to his great relief, could mask even his fear. He was dressed in white robes. It seemed that at least his captors allowed him that. It was small thing, but a blessing, for the marble was cold … and the night was cold …
I am such a fool! he thought to himself, as he lay there helpless, reflecting upon his mistakes and his regrets, pondering the string of betrayals that had led to this moment. There was nothing he could do about them now. Yet, he couldn’t help but dwell on them, asking himself the same questions he had asked a million times before. Why did I ever lock it away so carelessly? I should never have taken it off. His thoughts taunted him. Why did I let Braywin study something so dangerous, even for the most skilled of the Readers? Sighing, he answered himself. A father’s love, I suppose, but I could have stopped her from the same folly. He sighed again. A husband’s love. He worried about his wife. Alaenia, wherever you are, stay there! Do not return to the palace.
He turned his head toward the man in black. “You will never get away with this, Lucce. You know that. It cannot be done,” he rasped. His intense blue eyes blazed with an icy rage that he was too weak to physically muster.
Lucce glanced down, temporarily interrupted from his vigilant anticipation. He glared at the chained man with hateful eyes, dark and full of scorn, shimmering with a red gleam of fire. They wanted to burn what they saw before them as the torchlight danced devilishly across his face.
“Quiet, Duquaine,” he said with a smugness that masked his apprehension. Lucce looked up again, searching. He was scanning the courtyard for any sign of movement. “We’ve heard enough from you, I think. Now that it comes to me, I should have done this first,” he hissed as the blood red stone hanging from the cord around his neck shone brilliantly in the darkness, bathing the scene in an ominous red light. Duquaine tried to call him a traitor but his head straightened, forcing his face upwards to peer into the deepness of the night, and then he felt his jaw and hands freeze. He could no longer move any part of his body except his eyes. Chained down, unable to move at all, he regretted his decision to protest. He should have kept silent. At least he had been able to move his hands. He could have used them to escape, somehow, if the situation had presented itself. Now it was too late. He would never escape.
From a distance, a rapid pounding of feet hit the marble floor announcing Ivan’s arrival. He had been sent to the watch tower to wait for Vlaad’s return and instructed to inform Lucce at once. Was he back? Did he find it? Then, with a shudder, he thought: No, he couldn’t have. It was hidden. Only the gatekeepers had access and they could never relinquish it. They would die. They were sworn to it, after all, so they knew they would die if they tried to betray the Council. He reassured himself. No, they could be trusted. Disillusioned, but still unwilling to give up hope, he kept telling himself that. For he had trusted Lucce once. He remembered. Thought him his best friend to whom he trusted his life. Of course, he was sworn too, Lucce. All of the Terravail were. It was law. But if Vlaad had succeeded, Duquaine would be sent away forever. No one in the Realm had the power or the knowledge of how to return him. What will happen to my family? My people? He could hear his children a few paces away, struggling in their bonds as the city’s clock tower slowly tolled midnight. His forehead beaded with sweat and his heart began to race …
“He has returned, my Lord,” Ivan said as he scrambled to the first step and bowed down low. He was an unctuous, obsequious little toady, short and squat with dirty brown, matted hair and a chubby, pockmarked face. Duquaine could never tolerate him. He wondered why he had never dismissed him before when he had had the chance. He might have avoided this whole mess.
The slow clop of heavy boots rang out and Ivan looked up toward the west end. Vlaad was like a mountain, tall, broad, and dressed in black mail with the Red Flame of Maalda across his chest. The watchers made a path through their numbers, eager to let him pass. He strode with the grace and air of a king but his black eyes shone with intentions that were anything but kingly. His dark hair and hooded, black cloak tossed in the night wind as he approached his master, holding his helmet with one arm and a dark leather sack with the other. Black clouds rolled over the palace menacingly and thunder roared. The storm was here.
“It went well?” Lucce said, as more of a command than a question.
“More than well, my Lord,” Vlaad replied calmly, with a smile that curled his perfect lips.
“How did you do it?” Lucce was curious. He had faith in Vlaad, more than any other, but he had had his doubts too. In the deep recesses of his mind, he worried that Duquaine was right, that it couldn’t be done. After his bird had returned with the message though, he knew there was no more to fear. It could happen that night.
“Captured his son. So, he had a choice. His son’s life or his own.” He held up the sack. “You can see which one he took.”
“Excellent. And the boy?”
“I am sorry, my Lord, but I deemed it …” he paused, searching for the appropriate word, “... imprudent, to let survive a son that may one day seek to avenge his father. I am sorry.”
“No, don’t be sorry,” Lucce said in a low voice. “It was well done. You see, I am glad I set this task to you. You knew exactly what to do.”
“I thank you, my Lord,” Vlaad said with a slight bow.
“Now, hand it to me,” Lucce commanded. “I want to finish this.”
There was a brief pause and a faint rustling. Above him, Duquaine saw two hands exchange a dark object. The strong hand with long fingers seized it impatiently and placed it on the prisoner’s chest. “And so, Duquaine, we shall see, who is right and who is worse than dead,” Lucce said with contempt as his muscled forefinger pressed the dark green stone hard into Duquaine’s chest while his own crimson stone glowed yet again. Then he muttered something incomprehensible and it all happened at once. The palace shook as if the land trembled beneath it. Thunder rumbled and lightning struck down. In a powerful flash, a thin disk of bright emerald light radiated from the dark stone, outward in all directions, flowing through anything in its path, and then … Duquaine was gone. The force of it knocked the crowd off its feet. The chains that had held him fell with a loud clang to the surface of the altar. Everyone slowly rose from the ground as drops of rain began to pour down upon them. There were gasps of astonishment from the unbelievers and a few cheers from the Draaquans. The muffled sobs of two children issued from a dark corner of the courtyard, as maniacal laughter echoed down the empty halls of the keep.
… Many months later …
It was freezing. The latch of the front gate was like ice on her fingers as she lifted it and let herself into the courtyard that she knew so well. Light from the cottage windows reflected off the icicles. It glimmered into the trees and onto the blanket of white that covered the ground. The snow, untouched except for her footsteps, sparkled as if multi-colored glitter had been strewn across it. In the distance she could hear the bells of the tower ringing in the holiday cheer and songs of merry-making well-wishers going about their business of gift-giving as so many of their ancestors had done for generations past. The smell of chimney smoke beckoned her longingly to come inside where it was warm and stay to enjoy the holiday season with family. She wished she could take part, though she knew she couldn’t. She had responsibilities to tend. The most precious of them was in the small bundle that she cradled in her arms.
Quiet as a mouse, she made her way to the front door where she placed the bundle. Taking a letter out of her pocket, she thought of one last thing. She removed the golden ring from her right hand and placed it into the envelope. “My gift to you,” she whispered and laid the envelope on top. As she straightened, the door opened. Candlelight and warmth flooded the dark porch. A stout man with a grey beard, holding a pipe, emerged. His expression remained calm as he stared at her and the bundle at her feet. She looked into his eyes pleadingly. He nodded. When she saw that he understood, she raised her hand to say goodbye and he returned the gesture. Then slowly, reluctantly, she turned to leave. The old man gathered the bundle and closed the door carefully, watching her as she left. A hot tear burned down her frozen cheek as she trudged back across the path that she had made in the snow and wondered if she would ever see them again.
Chapter 1
The Road to Branbury
Chalice heeled Sunny down the cool, dark road. It was early, and morning mist covered the leaves of the thick forest with drops of dew that sparkled in the God rays peeking through the treetops. Chirping birds and scuffling forest animals, seeking their first meal of the day, slowly broke the silence of the dawn. He was a good horse, Sunny, given to her by her grandfather, Papa, before she left Canton Run. However, he did occasionally need a nudge or two when he pretended to be spooked by something unknown to her lurking in the dark. She had to admit, though, that there was something odd about this place that she had sought so desperately. It gave her a strange feeling.
A few paces further, the path brought them out of the knot of trees into a breezy clearing. She winced as she looked up at the horizon into the blue sky and was met by a bright beam of sunlight. As she gazed to the left, she saw a wide, green meadow, brilliantly dotted with white daisies, which sloped gently upward toward the peak of Mount Vaassa. To the right, a sharp cliff rendered a breathtaking view of the valley. It was the northernmost section of the Auramont Vale and barely visible through the low cloud cover that shrouded the land. She was almost there. She knew. She could feel it. Would he be there? Does he have what I was sent for? she wondered. Reaching down into her saddlebag, she pulled out a piece of bread and cheese that she gnawed hungrily. She was running low and would need to stop in the village for provisions before heading to Nathaniel’s farm. Papa had given her plenty of money that she kept tucked away in her bag: a bulging leather purse of fifty gold coronals, thirty-five silver sterlings, and twenty copper pence. That should be enough for a while, she thought.
“You must go to the village of Branbury, on the outskirts of Auramont. There is a man, Nathaniel Maehbeck. He has something to give you. He will know what to do. It is essential that you listen to him and follow his instructions. Go.” These were the last words she had heard him say before he had her hoisted up onto Sunny, with her bags hastily packed, and slapped the horse on the rear, sending him into an immediate gallop. The King’s men had already seized control of Canton and the smoke from the fires burned her eyes as she fled into the night. She recalled that as Sunny launched forward at full speed, she had managed to glance back. Before they reached the protection of the trees, she saw her grandfather heading off toward the pigeon cage. He must have been going to send a message, she thought. But to whom? Now, she wasn’t even sure if he was still alive. She tried not to think about it.
It was amazing, actually, that she had made it this far. Though, he had taught her well: how to track, find food when coin ran out, stay warm in the cold, and most of all, stay out of sight and keep silent while traveling. It kept her alive. Had he known he would someday send her off on her own, on a quest of which she knew absolutely nothing until now? Not that she knew that much about it. Find a man named Nathaniel and follow his instructions. That was it so far.
And so she had headed east. She knew Auramont was in that general direction from Canton. Using the old, updated map Papa had tossed into her bag, she found her way through Blackburn forest, just south of the Darrenfell Moor, through the Plains of Chauma to the Trui’Quirre Mountains, the path through which she had to negotiate carefully. It skirted the edge of the Praeceps and at the bottom rested a series of razor sharp rocks with which she did not want to become too familiar. The Praeceps were the steepest cliffs in Naeo’Gaea and provided the only way to pass through the mountains. The Trui’Quirre, or the Three Peaks, were so high, it was impossible to reach the top and survive. On the other side of the mountains, lay Auramont and Branbury was located to the east of Mount Vaassa which was an ancient mountain, the oldest in the chain. Of course, many of the names on the map that she had were written in the language of old, which was spoken before the beginning of the New Millennium. She could hardly imagine what life must have been like for those who survived the era before it, living mostly underground to escape the chill of a winter that had lasted for eons. She remembered Papa’s bedtime stories by the fireside and his instruction in Angaulic, the language spoken by those who lived during the Ice Age. He taught her everything he knew, except the story of her past.
Leave and go to a farm in Auramont?!? While everyone and everything she knew and had loved since she was a child were in danger? What was he playing at? she wondered. Frustrated, tired and saddle-sore, she burned inside to know what it was, this thing that was so important. It was what kept her going. She had been on the road for months and was almost there.
Sunny stumbled slightly and she glanced down to make sure his footing was stable. He must be getting tired too, she thought. They had been on the trail all night and even the strongest horse would tire without rest. So she dismounted and walked along by his side, leading him through the clearing. We’ll take a short rest in the shadow of the trees ahead, she thought to herself. Sunny was a young palomino gelding, stocky but sturdy, with a blond forelock, tail, and mane, and strong hooves and fetlocks. He had a broad, strong chest and a long stride that made for quick getaways when they were necessary. And he was just the right size for her. She was petite but hardy, for being raised in Canton meant you were trained in the Cantonese fighting arts from an early age and if that didn’t make you tough, nothing would.
Chalice was also very beautiful, which made it difficult for the boys to spar with her. She had fair skin and a smooth oval face that was caressed by long, golden, butternut curls. They folded down the sides of her cheeks and framed her red rosebud mouth, button nose, and large sapphire eyes that were decorated with long dark eyelashes. She wore an ocean-blue riding habit that was split in the skirt for straddling a horse and laced with a wavy pattern down the sides. It was comfortable and snug in the bosom and waist, but flared out at the bottom. What held in her body heat, though, was her darkly tanned, hooded, riding cloak that she had made out of lambskin. It was resilient and leathery on the outside for protection, and soft and furry on the inside for warmth. On the ring finger of her right hand, she donned a golden ring with a rare, long-cut, ice-blue diamond set in the heart of it. She was told that it had once belonged to her mother. On her riding dress, just below her left shoulder, hung a sapphire broach given to her by her grandmother, Naelli. However much she valued these gemstones from her mother and grandmother, her favored possession was the golden pendant around her neck that she kept close to her skin, under her garments. It held a golden amulet that Papa had had crafted by Elijah, Créone’s master smith who lived on the outskirts of Canton. The amulet was a circle that contained three lines meeting in the center and ending on the perimeter, not quite equidistant from one another, so that they formed what looked like a Y enclosed in the circle.
The amulet was special, not only because it was a gift from Papa, whom she loved dearly, but also because it was the exact shape of a distinct and unique birthmark on her right shoulder. At one time she had been doubtful that she was born with the mark because it was so unusual, but Papa had sworn that she was. He called it her lucky charm. Chalice was just shy of her eighteenth birthday, and he had been preparing something special for her. She suspected that the surprise was not of material gifts, though, but of the knowledge that she longed for her whole life, the knowledge of her family. All she had ever known about herself, from the earliest she could remember, was that she was Chalice Pandretti, granddaughter to Sebastian and Naelli Pandretti, who ran the Inn and Winery on Canton Run. Of her past and the existence of the rest of her family, she knew nothing. She had always wondered if maybe she had been an unwanted child. It was something that haunted her constantly. When she asked Papa about it, he said that she wasn’t old enough to know, that she must not ask further, and then he remained silent. For the celebration of her eighteenth birthday, he gave subtle hints that he would break that silence but it was too late. The village had been attacked and she had had to flee before the King’s men reached the inn. Now she despaired that she would never know.
The path through the clearing was long and she was awestruck by the beauty of the mountain passes. Beautiful but dangerous, she reminded herself. Mount Vaassa was so enormous, the extent of her vision could not reach its snowcapped peaks. It reminded her of all the failed attempts of those in the generations past who had tried to scale it. All the would-be masters of the mountain either froze to death or suffocated from lack of oxygen; that is, if they didn’t perish by a fall to a cold and rocky end. Fools! she thought. A ridiculously hopeless task. Why would anyone want to undertake it? You’d have to be completely crazy or arrogant … or both. After recently braving the middle passes, as far as she was concerned, having a healthy respect for the mountain was good and wise advice. Before reaching the end of the clearing and entering the next thicket of trees, she peered back toward the meadow. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but there was something familiar about it, like a faint memory buried under a lifetime of experience. She wondered if maybe she had traveled this way before as an infant. If she had, she couldn’t remember it and Papa had never said anything about it either. Finally, she shook herself back to reality and, ignoring the thought, continued on.
A small way into the shade of the forest she noticed a small, flattened area surrounded by pines just off the right side of the path, down the hill a few paces. There, she and Sunny could make camp and take a short rest. They descended carefully and she tied his reins to the branch of a tree, the ground around which he immediately began searching for all the good green stuff that horses relished. She removed her soft lambskin riding gloves and, after tucking them behind her belt, grabbed a couple of small carrots from her saddlebag.
“Here boy, munch on these.” She held out her flattened palm and he grabbed them quickly. Then she dug in the bags again for her water skin. Thirst had taken hold of her and she drank almost half of it in one go. Crisp, refreshing mountain water, there was really nothing like it in Canton. It was fortunate that they had passed a brook a league back where they had filled up; otherwise they would have had to wait until they arrived at the village, which ran alongside the Canterine River.
After a few minutes of searching, she found some wood and kindling, and, using her flint and steel, had a crackling fire lit and hot tea in her cup. As she laid a woolen blanket from her bag on the ground next to the tree where Sunny was tied, she could hear the rustling of the tree leaves in the breeze. She sat down and rested her head on the trunk. Holding her cup in both hands on her lap for warmth, she faced upward, studying the treetops and the bits of azure sky that peeked in through the gaps of the green canopy above. Sequoias, she thought. How old were they? She knew that Mount Vaassa was the only mountain where this type of evergreen still grew. They were ancient, just like the mountain, and they existed in the world before the Ice Age, somehow surviving the cold. She thought how she would love to have known what it was like living in the time of the Ancient World. A golden age where knowledge was so advanced, it even exceeded Terravailian powers in some respects. She tried to imagine it and the more her mind wandered, the more relaxed she became. Her eyes closed. The light breeze was cool and the fire snapped and sizzled … and then she was walking down the white marble corridor again.
The corridor was wide and the marble glowed with radiant light. It was embellished with dark tapestries that traced its length. At the end of the corridor twisted a set of stairs that led to the top of the structure and she knew, without knowing how she knew, that her purpose for being there could be found through the staircase above. In defiance, however, she took the left doorway instead, curious to see the quarters that lay within. She had never seen these rooms before.
She entered what appeared to be a sitting room. It was spacious and greeted visitors with a plush Maliyan rug, of red and blue pattern, positioned in the middle of the floor. The magnificent rug carried the weight of two large settees that faced each other, whose cushions were of similar texture and design, and its legs, carved delicately of darkly stained cedar, were polished until they shone softly. In between the settees lay a low table carved of wood, but inlaid with gold on its surface, which held an empty goblet and a few scattered books. The brilliance of the marble walls cast a soft light around the room and created a warm, peaceful ambience.
She advanced further in and approached the large fireplace to the left that was worked in carved marble, until she stood on the white tiles of the hearth. The red-gold flames flickered, radiating a gentle energy throughout the chamber. She turned to examine the intricate Avielian tapestries that adorned the polished wall panels, and found that they depicted battle scenes of long ago, as it appeared by the attire of the men in the settings. Who were they? She wondered if they had once lived.
Passing the hearth, she noticed two doorways, one on each side of the sitting room, and a double doorway in front of her, consisting of crystal squares framed in carved cedar, that revealed a terrace behind it, overlooking the ocean. In the background, the sky was exploding in a glorious blaze of pink and purple as the rising sun peeked out over the horizon. As she moved toward the terrace, her gaze met the four-poster bed of the chamber to her left. It was a room that gave the same warmth and comfort as the entry but was clearly the bedchamber of whoever dwelled here. Whoever it was, she knew they were wealthy, maybe even noble. The enormous four-poster supported an indigo canopy with a white, tasseled contour and milky chiffon drapes that veiled a soft feather mattress dressed in silk sheets. To the right sat a bedside table topped with a polished jewelry box, and an antique washstand next to it that held a mirror so old, it was worn on the edges where it met the polished wood and was clouded in the center.
A soft, pulsating glow caught her eye and she whirled to the right. It was coming from the other doorway, opposite the bedchamber. Approaching cautiously, she entered a study furnished with plush chairs and a large, dark writing desk. Behind the desk, the whole wall was an enormous assemblage of bookshelves arrayed with books of varying size and age. As soon as she was close enough to make out the script of the titles, she read: The Reign of Ielierian Kings, The Code of the Realm, and Justice and Redemption. There were more but she knew there was no time to study them all. Interesting, she thought. These folk must be nobility.
The light did not cease its wax and wane, but pulled her toward a tall, wooden armoire with glass doors, that she opened to gaze upon a blue gem enclosed in a crystal case. The light from the gem rose and fell like a heartbeat. She reached for it but was thwarted by an invisible barrier that stayed her hand. Then she knew she could not touch it, and its beating was somehow telling her that it was time to ascend the staircase. She made her way back to the end of the corridor and slowly placed her foot on the first step. One by one she rose upward until she came to the light of a doorway that opened into a short hallway. The hallway led to the entrance of a courtyard. She followed the short length of it and as she entered the courtyard, she glanced to her right to see, through the embrasure, the golden ball of the sun over the watery distance. It was full morning and she closed her eyes to the rush of salty air as the wind blew her hair from her face. She could hear the cawing of the sea graels in the distance and smell the rich scent of the ocean. Suddenly, behind her, the clop of horse hooves gave her a start. She pivoted and …
Opening her eyes, she looked up into Sunny’s muzzle. The whites of his eyes shone with terror. He was snorting, stomping, and nudging her, trying to wake her. Fool! she called herself. What did Papa teach you? If you must rest, rest with one eye open.
“What is it, boy?” she said as she jumped to her feet, spilling her tea, which had lost its heat, and stroked his blond neck to calm him. Then she heard it, the same rustling sound that she had believed to be leaves in the wind. She glanced up toward the path from which they had traveled and glimpsed small, furry ears disappearing over the edge. She let out an oath. She should have known the difference between the sound of leaves and the sound of an intruder. Tossing down her mug, she bounded up the hillside. Once upon the path, she saw that whatever the creature was, friendly or hostile, it was no longer in sight but that it had left strange tracks — imprints that she had never seen before. What was it? she wondered. She tracked them to the other side, marking the areas of displacement of the small ground stones and fallen leaves. These she followed like breadcrumbs to a great oaden tree with deep-grained bark that was supported by enormous, thick roots.
Circling the tree, she came upon a hollow under the roots … that sprouted sage brush from underneath?!? This was a little too suspicious, as anyone who was studied in the botanical nature of the Trui’Quirre, knew that sage did not grow near oaden trees. She crept up silently toward the hollow and in one swift movement, gripped the thicket of brush and threw it aside. What leapt out of the hole was the last thing she expected. Half her height, a small, brown, furry creature, wearing a light brown, hooded cloak and carrying a small rucksack, brandished a tree branch at her and growled malignantly. It was chubby and had a small mouth with tiny teeth, a small, dark button nose to match tiny, dark button eyes, and fluffy, rounded ears that stuck out from the top of its oversized head. It reminded her of a teddy bear that she had cuddled at night when she was a child. Her lips quivered as she fought a crazy desire to laugh but she knew the expression shown on her face anyway. It was really like a small, forest animal attempting to scare her with a stick. It registered the look on her face, paused, and growled again, this time raising its arms as if to appear larger than it was. At this point, she could not hold back the laughter. It came out full force in a loud snort, bringing her nearly to tears. Frustrated and embarrassed, the little creature knew its plan was not working.
It darted up the tree faster than her eyes could follow. All she saw was a brown blur and before she could catch her breath to ask it to stay, the treetops were swishing back and forth, not because of the wind, though, but because that was how the Chinuka traveled when they did not want to be seen. For she knew what it was now but could not understand what it was doing so close to a village. The Chinuka never came this far down the mountain. Descendants of the tree dwellers of the Ancient World, they no longer had to depend on the safety of the trees but instead made their homes in the high passes of the mountains, where people could not survive. Papa had taught her that it was not always this way though. There was a time when they were friendly with the other races and had regular dealings with them, even in areas of business and trade. But after several battles, mainly among the Terravail, and too many deaths of the innocent, who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, they severed contact with the human world. The Chinuka were peaceful and did not like war. They were also highly advanced and very intelligent.
Suddenly, she heard a loud THUMP a few paces ahead. It was in the direction of the rustling trees and when she arrived at the spot, she found a small, leather-bound book. It must have dropped this, she thought. Maybe it will come back. So she waited, but the Chinuk did not return. Sighing, she walked back to her small camp where Sunny was waiting, nibbling the ground. He looked refreshed and she hoped that he had gotten as much sleep as she had, for it was afternoon, judging by the angle of the light, and it was high time for them to be on their way. Before packing and mounting, she opened the small leather book and studied the pages. She could not read Chinukan writing but she decided to keep it anyway, just in case. Somehow it seemed like a good idea. She stuffed it in her bag along with her woolen blanket and silver mug. Dousing the fire, she then camouflaged the spot with dirt and leaves, untied Sunny, and led him back up to the road.
It took her a while to get over the encounter with the creature. So that’s what they look like! I never knew they were so weird. She laughed to herself, picturing again in her mind its feeble attempt at frightening her. A few spans down, the path forked. The right fork sloped gently downhill toward Tanjeca Falls, which she could already hear faintly in the distance. The left fork led to the high passes, where she definitely did not want to go. So she reined Sunny to the right and leaned slightly back to give him his balance for the descent.
Her stomach growled. She couldn’t wait to arrive for a hot meal and a bath. It was difficult to recall the last time she had bathed in a warm tub after so many months of making camp, eating cheese, dried meat, and stale bread, and washing in the chill waters of the mountain. Thinking of it made her miss the warmth of home and the delicious aromas of Grandma Naelli’s kitchen. She remembered a time from when she was tiny and could view only her grandparents’ legs and feet, as she hid underneath the kitchen table and listened to the crackle of the fire that gleamed in the burnished kitchenware on the walls. In her mind, she could still hear the jangle of pots and pans as dinner was being prepared. It was her place of comfort, happiness, love, and laughter.
She thought of her grandparents and her friends and all the people in the town where she grew up. It made her sad. They had to be alright, she kept telling herself because she couldn’t bring herself to believe anything else. She wondered where Kirna and Tycho were and what they were doing. Kirna Dubin and Tycho Bendeban were her two best friends, that she had known since she was a small child, and with whom she had completed her training. Kirna was the only one who could best her at sparring but Tycho, on the other hand, was never very coordinated. Although, he could make you laugh when you wanted to rage, or cry, depending on your mood. At times, it was his best defense, for it was often hard to concentrate and keep your strength when you tickled inside with mirth. She recalled their fishing trips on the docks of the Créonar and stopping into the Trottoire to see Marie on their way back home, with their fresh catch of the day. Even though they had reeked of fish, she had still let them sit at her bar and have a bowl of Chaeochira, Chalice’ favorite soup, patiently listening to their silly stories, before the fading light of dusk pushed them out the door. Canton was the best place in the world and it was where she wanted to be right at this moment.
As she passed the old sawmill that marked the entrance to Branbury, she noted the absence of children playing along the riverbank. Papa had grown up in Branbury and told her stories of the old mill and games of cache-cache that they played when he was a child. Maybe the children don’t visit the old mill anymore, she thought. After a few minutes, she arrived at a second fork in the road and knew that proceeding left would take her to Nathaniel’s farm. However, she needed to visit the village first for a bit of shopping, not just because she was running low on supplies but also because it was customary to bring a gift to hosts who welcomed you into their home. So she reined Sunny to the right. He complied willingly and before she knew it, they were out of the woods and entering the village square.
It was a quaint, little town square, with a small park in the middle. There was a beautiful silver fountain at the center, gurgling with fresh, spring water, surrounded by a green, grassy area with scattered picnic tables and bracketball courts. Shops surrounded the park on all sides. The village bakery was just around the left corner from where she and Sunny strode. It was late afternoon, almost early evening, and eerily quiet. All she could hear was the wind in the trees and the slow clop of Sunny’s hooves on the cobblestone street. A strange sense came over her. It was too quiet. Where is everyone? she wondered.
She halted Sunny in front of the bakery, dismounted, and tied his reins to the hitching post just outside. The door was wide open as she entered. The aroma that met her nose was that of a hot stone fire oven and floured dough on a baking peel. Bags of baked bread lay in their baskets around the room, while sweets and pastries hid behind the glass case of the front counter. An old grandfather clock chimed five o’clock on the wall above the coffer and five pence lay scattered on the counter to the left. Everything seemed intact and normal, except there was no one in sight.
She left the store and noticed an old tavern to its right. It displayed a wooden sign outside the entrance, creaking in the wind. On the sign was a picture of a rugged man dressed in a leather jerkin with pockets full of iron tools, holding a tankard of ale with a horseshoe handle. The sign read: The Farrier. She stepped up to the swinging tavern door and pushed. Halfway in, the door stopped abruptly, blocked by something that lay on the floor. She shimmied through and found that it was a barstool that had been knocked over by someone who apparently had been in a rush to get out. She stood it straight and placed it out of the way. The rest of the tavern appeared peaceful. A group of polished wooden tables and chairs rested in the left corner behind the billiards table, which was frozen in mid-game, queue sticks lying across it. To the right, on the bar counter, lay an array of tankards. Behind it, the wall was given to casks of ale, wine, and brandy, with spigots jutting out for a barman to service the next customer. At the far end, lay a water pitcher on the bar and an empty bucket on the polished wooden floor. She glanced around the room and, again, saw no one. A tavern having no patrons at this time of day is passing strange, she thought. What was going on? She left the tavern and made her way back to the hitching post where Sunny was waiting. The silence was heavy and it weighed on her. She screwed up her eyes and peered around everywhere, still in shock. She had no idea what had happened here but there was one thing she did know. If there had been people here before, they were not here now. Branbury was a ghost town.
Chapter 2
Chalice was lost. The thought of what to do escaped her. Think! she told herself as she closed her eyes, rubbed her temples, and tried to concentrate. This was something she hadn’t expected. Where was everyone? By the state of the village, they must have had to leave in a hurry. She would have thought that it had been an attack, like the one against Canton, but there was no evidence of that. Nothing was destroyed or burned, just emptied. Moreover, there were no tracks for her to follow so she had no way to search for them. What do I do? she asked herself. She knew she needed supplies badly and Sunny needed water. Take care of your immediate needs first, she told herself. After all, I have everything right here at my disposal … but I’ll be sure to leave coin near the coffers. That should cover the costs. She thought that if anything, it was for the hope of the safe return of the villagers who belonged there. After collecting the bucket and water pitcher from the tavern, she poured the water into the bucket and placed it in front of Sunny who knew exactly what it was. He lowered his beautiful head and drank deeply.
“I’ll be right back, boy,” she told him as she made her way back to the bakery to collect a few bags of fresh sourdough, leaving a couple pence on the counter. Then she proceeded onto the general store and lastly, to the cheese shop, which she found on the corner of Main and First Street. Arms full, she waddled back to the hitching post and fed Sunny the carrots and apples she had purchased. The bread, sausage, and cheese she tucked away into her bags, to offer Nathaniel for later after she arrived at the farm. On her tour around the shops, she had decided that that was to be her next move, to continue on with her original plan. The town may be empty but the farm may not be, hopefully, she thought silently to herself. It was a long shot but she had to take it. What else was there to do? She couldn’t return to Canton. So she untied Sunny, mounted, and heeled him down the street. The light fluttering and singing cries of a flock of greywings drifted overhead as she and Sunny strode down Main, right onto Pine, and out of the village.
A few minutes after passing the fork in the road where they had been an hour before, she could faintly hear the rush of flowing water of the Canterine and knew that they were getting close. The Canterine River was a wide, deep river whose current moved rapidly from the downhill force of the mountain’s steep slope. A gust of icy wind pushed down upon her and cut through her cloak, which she had forgetfully left untied. This she regretted as she shivered and pulled the lambskin close to her. It was growing colder as twilight approached and the dark shadows of the evening were lengthening. In the distance, along the line of trees that traced the left side of the road, the form of a russet, wooden stable, with a tiled roof, emerged, getting larger as they drew nearer. On the right side of the path, opposite the stable, the thicket of tall pines and brush came to an abrupt stop and blocked the view. From the gritty scent of the air, she could make an educated guess as to what lay beyond it and she would more than likely be right.
The road ended at the stable entrance, where Chalice dismounted and led Sunny inside to escape the windy chill. The hall of the stable gave access to the horse stalls, four on each side, a tack room in the back, and a hayloft above it with an attached stepladder on the right side. Behind the stepladder was a door that led out of the back of the stable to the trees behind it. Along the hallway, two posts supported the center beam of the roof. Chalice led sunny inside and tied his reins to a hook protruding from one of the posts. She undid the girth strapped around his rib cage, to relieve him of his burden. After placing the saddle on the wooden saddle horse in the tack room and hooking her bags on the wall, she led him into one of the back stalls and removed his bridle and bit. Tossing him a couple flakes of alfalfa from the loft, and setting a large bucket of water in the corner, she closed the stall door and latched it. When she returned to the tack room to exchange the bridle for her bags, she noticed a large cupboard in the left-hand corner, on the ground. Interesting place for a cupboard, she thought as she tossed the bags over her shoulder. On her way back, Sunny stuck his head over the stall door as if to say: “You’re leaving me?!?”
She stroked his muzzle and said: “I’m just going to be in the house. We can rest for now, boy. Have a good night.” A deep, throaty grumble told her that he understood and his head disappeared behind the stall door. Then she left the stable, gathering an oil lamp hanging from a hook beside the exit, and closed the doors behind her.
Outside she had a full view of what had been blocked by the large copse of trees. In front of her lay a large fenced and gated area of farm animals tucked away safely in their pens. Beyond that sprawled hectares of crop fields and orchards, which were watered by an irrigation system that she had never seen before. It was constructed of what appeared to be pipes, of a fireclay material, that extended from the river to the cultivated ground. A small vineyard grew behind an enormous storage barn that sat side-by-side with the house, along the waterfront. Between the two structures was a display of rustic carts and wagons for transporting goods. Behind them, a long, sturdy, wooden ramp stretched deep into the water and supported a huge waterwheel that rotated steadily by the force of the river current catching the wheel’s palettes. From a large, wooden box that grew out of the ramp, next to the wheel, ran two sets of thin pipelines, one set extending to the house, the other to the barn.
Walking along the path of hard-packed dirt, with the rust-colored fence on her right side, she could see another, larger pier, made for boat docking, which lay a small distance ahead. There, a large ferry was docked on the right side of the pier. In the far distance, on the other side of the Canterine, stretched more crop-filled fields that were tended by farmers in the area. There were quite a few farms scattered around Branbury, but none of them, it seemed, paraded a waterwheel or other innovative farm equipment like that of the Maehbecks. This farm employed tools unlike any she had ever seen.
As she made her way toward the pier, she noted tracks in the dirt that looked fairly new. That’s a good sign, she thought. Then, without warning, she felt strangely unreal. There was a stubborn, tingling sensation on the back of her neck. A screech pierced the air and she spun. SWOOSH. A red falcon had suddenly abandoned its perch atop the highest branch of the nearest pine and was gliding down swiftly in her direction. She could see malice in its crimson eyes as it neared. She carefully set down the lantern and her bags to poise for an attack. Fortunately, if that had been the bird’s original intention, it quickly changed its mind, leveled its flight and soared out toward the waterfront above the pier, and then east along the river.
Seriously?! A falcon?! Did that really happen? she asked herself. Not only were falcons not native to the area, they weren’t red either. Come to think of it, she had never seen a red falcon before. She had never even heard of one. Not in school or even during her evening firesides with Papa. Where did it come from? she wondered as she moved closer to the river.
Walking onto the pier, she felt the boards creak beneath the weight of her footsteps. It seemed to be made of the same type of wood as the structures nearby, but much older, as if it had been built ages before the farm. At the end of the pier, she set aside her load and removed the water skin from her bag. As she bent low and opened the flask, she caught movement to the left out of the corner of her eye. A torn strip of black cloth swayed from a splinter in the wood that supported a bollard. A mooring rope, which was still tied to the bollard, floated in the water, trailing eastward with the current. It appeared as if someone had cut the line from a vessel that had docked here instead of undoing the knot. Had a ship been here recently? she wondered.
After replenishing her water supply, she made her way back to the front yard of the house. Sturdy and strong, the house was built to endure like most everything she had seen on the farm. Two levels, with small windows on all sides, it sat boldly along the waterfront, daring the elements to challenge the safe haven it provided for its inhabitants. It was the same russet color as the barn and the stable and it greeted its visitors with a large, enclosed porch. It was adorned with floral arrangements that she took to be the work of Mrs. Maehbeck. The roof displayed tightly fitted shingles that shielded the floors below, and its edges supported eaves that provided shade for the windows. Additional shade came from the willow trees that lined the sides and front of the home, whose protective branches draped all areas of the building. The porch steps lead to the front door, on whose left side sat two wooden rocking chairs and a small drink table between them. On the right side lay an open barrel of firewood, freshly cut given the condition of the axe that was propped up against the side of the house behind it. This gave her some encouragement. It was another sign that someone was there.
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