©2010, 2011, 2012, R.T. Kaelin
All Rights Reserved.
www.rtkaelin.com
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without written permission from the author.
Print ISBN-13: 978-0-615-42103-2
Cover Design by R.T. Kaelin
This is an edited edition, updated from the original released in February 2011.
Visit www.rtkaelin.com for short stories in the world of Terrene. The Terrene Chronicles are a collection of prequel short stories available for you to enjoy.
Columbus, Ohio
www.terrene.info
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Acknowledgements
I can think of hundreds, perhaps thousands, of other things I would have thought I might do in my life before writing acknowledgements for a book I had written. Nevertheless, here I am.
I would like to thank my wife for supporting me through this effort. I cannot imagine what she thought when I told her one day, “Hey, I’m going to write a book.” Lisa, you are a terrific wife and wonderful mother.
Thank you to my two children, whose spirit and love inspire me every day. As you grow older (and learn to read), I hope you enjoy the story you helped contribute to without knowing.
To my first editor who must have gone through quite a few red pens to kill my love affair with semicolons—especially in the beginning—thanks, Mom.
Thank you to all the friends and family members who took the time to read some early versions for their feedback and encouragement.
Thank you to a pair of sisters, Diane Kistner and Donna Overall, for hearing my call for help and being infinitely patient with their advice and guidance.
Thank you to anyone reading this book. I hope you enjoy reading the story as much as I did writing it. Let us see where our travels go.
New Edition Addendum
Thank you to all of the wonderful readers who have embraced my work. Thank you for the encouragement and kind words. I love writing the stories as much as you do reading them.
Thank you to the numerous authors I've met in the past year. You have all been invaluable to my evolution as a writer.
Thank you to a trio of readers who have been wonderful in their support and proof-reading services. Chris, Caleb, Nate, Lee, Uriah, Jim…thanks
Visit www.rtkaelin.com for the Terrene Chronicles and news on the upcoming sequel to Progeny.
A Quick Note to Readers
The book you are about to read is different from the version that was first published in December of 2010. Much different. You might wonder what prompted me to rewrite an already published book. Let me explain.
If life is a journey, my life as an author has been a meandering one full of wrong exits, unintended pit-stops, and wrong turns. I should have bought a map.
Progeny was my debut effort as a novelist. When I first released it as an indie author, I believed I had created a wonderful tale worthy of sharing with the world. To this day, that belief holds true. However, my ability to weave a story far outpaced my skill as a writer. I might have told a good story, but I had not written a good book.
Close to a year after I published, a series of events opened my eyes to many of my shortcomings as a writer and helped spur me to improve.
In November of 2011, I had a wonderful opportunity presented to me. Someone in the traditional publishing industry wanted to read Progeny. Someone who could make things happen for this book. Naturally, I was quite excited and off the manuscript went.
All through the holiday season, I anxiously awaited a reply. And in mid-December, I received one: a polite ‘No, thank you.’
The individual and two of his readers had read the book and had a list of concerns. While they liked much of what was there, the criticisms offered were more than legitimate. They were spot on. Things about story structure. Things about character arcs. Things about trying to jam too much into one book.
Criticism, even when it is honest and good, stings. However, I did not get angry. I trusted what they had to say. They know the business. They know what sells. And Progeny, as it was in that form, would not advance beyond the group of loyal readers I had garnered. I wanted more.
I chose to treat the rejection as another opportunity. Few writers get such great feedback from experts this early in their career. So, I thanked the person for the constructive criticism and I shared that I was planning to do a true re-evaluation and rewrite of Progeny. Not just a touch-up, but a true rip-it-apart-into-tiny-pieces-and-put-it-back-together rewrite. I would axe chunks that did not work and write new ones that did. I would fix what I needed to fix.
I sent off the email without expecting to hear a response, so I was quiet surprised when I received one. The individual sent me all of the notes taken on the book and asked to read the rewrite once done, cautioning me that this was not something typically done in the industry. Gracious, I thanked them and got to work.
Which brings me to now.
The book you are holding is my rewrite. Massive changes have been made to the book. While the guts of the plot remain the same, much of the book is very, very different. Readers of the original will certainly notice the changes—some might be jarring at first—but I promise this: I have not changed what so many of you have told me you loved. In fact, I have added a bit more of that while extracting what bogged down the story.
The original 40 chapters, 308k words is now 72 chapters, but at 264k words. Chapters are shorter, crisper chunks. I ended cutting about 70k of fluff, but added about 25k of new scenes to allow better character development. I do not miss what is gone and love what is there now. There are even five new chapters sprinkled throughout the tale.
Now…why am I writing this here?
Well, I want this letter to be a ‘thank you’ to the readers who have been on this journey with me from the beginning, and I want to promise you that the new version of Progeny is every bit the book you enjoyed the first go around, and more. To new readers…well, consider this a nice “behind the curtains” look at an indie author’s journey as he tries to make a name for himself.
While I am having the book professionally edited before I resubmit, I wanted the new edition—in its current state—available to the public now. Too much has changed for me to leave the old out there. A few trusted readers have re-read it this edition for me, proofing as they went, and feel comfortable with what I have now. So, here it is.
One last note before you start your journey. As I was editing the re-write, I happened to glance back at the acknowledgements I wrote in the original edition. When I read the last few lines, I chuckled aloud, amazed at the prophetic nature of my words.
“Thank you to anyone reading this book. I hope you enjoy reading the story as much as I did writing it. Let us see where our travels go.”
I am still traveling. Thanks for coming with me.
Good days ahead.
-R.T. Kaelin
Progeny
Volume 1 in The Children of the White Lions
The roar of the Lions will drive back the spawn,
And the lines of men, strong once again, will be redrawn.
Yet that which drives man’s soul will fray at the seams,
While the strength of the Lions will fade as do last night’s dreams.
Torn apart by deceit and distrust,
One will perish and One will be lost.
One will leave, while Another will stay.
And Two shall find each Other one day.
Against his will, one must fight,
While it falls upon the Half-man to unit
e.
Chaos will rise again, unraveling what has been made,
With Strife, Pain, and Deception in tow, lending aid.
Hidden, then found,
Willingly come around,
The Progeny must rise to lead the fight,
Along with new and old, seek to make it right.
– As recorded by High Priest en’Sul, First of Indrida
3rd day of the Turn of Lamoth, 4639
The Oaken Duchies
Terrene
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1: Water
Chapter 2: Lake
Chapter 3: Home
Chapter 4: Hidden
Chapter 5: Teacher
Chapter 6: Discovery
Chapter 7: Loss
Chapter 8: Plan
Chapter 9: Escape
Chapter 10: Strands
Chapter 11: Shapechanger
Chapter 12: Road
Chapter 13: Trust
Chapter 14: Weaver
Chapter 15: Hillman
Chapter 16: Student
Chapter 17: Research
Chapter 18: Luck
Chapter 19: Brother
Chapter 20: Travel
Chapter 21: Siblings
Chapter 22: Hilltop
Chapter 23: History
Chapter 24: Brigands
Chapter 25: Magistrate
Chapter 26: Revelation
Chapter 27: Trackers
Chapter 28: Council
Chapter 29: Pursuit
Chapter 30: Sergeant
Chapter 31: Truth
Chapter 32: Longlegs
Chapter 33: Lakeborough
Chapter 34: Invaders
Chapter 35: Fate
Chapter 36: Lessons
Chapter 37: Shadow
Chapter 38: Fork
Chapter 39: Bullockboar
Chapter 40: Nudge
Chapter 41: Farm
Chapter 42: Sisters
Chapter 43: West
Chapter 44: Demon
Chapter 45: Trail
Chapter 46: East
Chapter 47: Hunger
Chapter 48: Decision
Chapter 49: Ruins
Chapter 50: Chance
Chapter 51: Story
Chapter 52: Watcher
Chapter 53: Deception
Chapter 54: Swordsman
Chapter 55: Struggle
Chapter 56: Meeting
Chapter 57: Arms
Chapter 58: Messenger
Chapter 59: Fernsford
Chapter 60: Betrayal
Chapter 61: Forest
Chapter 62: Oligurts
Chapter 63: Night
Chapter 64: Apples
Chapter 65: Soulwraith
Chapter 66: Hill
Chapter 67: Fiends
Chapter 68: Leader
Chapter 69: Battle
Chapter 70: Saeljul
Chapter 71: Victory
Chapter 72: Hope
Epilogue
Appendix
Prologue
24th of the Turn of Maeana, 4744
Jhaell awoke, wet, shivering and lying on his back.
A wave of icy water rushed up to covered his legs, shocking him with its chill and forcing his eyes to snap open. The sky stared down at him, a solid slate of gray.
“Syra?”
The word came out as a soft, mumbled croak. His lips were numb.
Digging his elongated fingers into the soupy wet sand, he pushed himself up into a sitting position. He turned his head to the right, scanning the beach as the winter wind whistled in his ears. Other than a lone gull strutting through the breakers’ edge, the shore was empty of life.
“Syra?”
The scene to his left was the same, only there was no gull. The wind surged, blowing his long white-blond hair forward so that it smacked his cheek and stuck, plastering itself to his pale skin. Clearing his throat, he tried again, louder.
“Syra?”
His mouth tasted of saltwater.
“Syra!”
His voice sounded small against the waves’ roar.
Another wave rushed over him. Gasping against the cold, he scooted back from the tide and rose on wobbly legs. His robes, blue and soaked heavy with seawater, clung to his thin frame. He spun around twice, searching.
White-capped surf.
Hulking, jagged rocks sticking up from the sand.
The dark silhouette of the academy’s towers sitting on the distant horizon.
No Syra.
“Syra!”
Wanting a better view of the area, he stumbled toward a boulder several dozen paces away, shivering uncontrollably, grabbed hold of the rough stone, and attempted to scale it. His fingers—numb and wet—slipped from the rock.
“Beelvra!”
He gripped the handhold a second time and tried again. The result was the same. His long, ijulan fingers were weak and unresponsive to his wishes. Frustrated, he reached for the Strands of Air in order to knit a quick Weave and lift himself atop the rock. He failed at that, too, the white strings of magic falling apart before he could complete the pattern. The prolonged exposure to water and weather was affecting his ability to concentrate. He slouched forward to lean against the rock, trying to remember what had happened.
Against academy rules, he had brought Syra to the shoreline to help her prepare for the final trial of the semester. Preceptors were restricted from providing individual instruction, but he had made an exception for Syra. In her six turns at Immylla, the pair had grown close. Very close.
He rested his forehead against the cold stone and stared at his sand-covered boots. Spotting a few drops of crimson on the white sand, he stood tall and found a deep gash on his palm. He must have cut it on the boulder, but the numbness had muted the pain. Now that he saw it, it began to throb.
He turned around, back to the sea, hoping he could gauge the tide’s position and determine how long he had been unconscious. He stared up and down the beach, looking for the line of dead seaweed that marked high tide, but it was gone. Something had washed it away.
His eyes opened wide. He remembered.
For some reason, perhaps in an effort to impress him, Syra had reached for far too many Strands of Water. While she was strong with Water, she was still an acolyte, and her inexperience showed. Her Weave had become increasingly tangled, yet Jhaell had given her leeway, hoping she could fix her mistake. She had not.
He shut his eyes and cursed himself. With any other student, he would have unraveled the twisted mess, admonished them for overreaching, and made them start again. His feelings for Syra had blinded him. By the time he realized what she had wrought, it was too late.
A thirty-foot wall of water had risen from the sea and washed over the shore. Jhaell had tried to craft a protective barrier of pure Air around them, but the wave had moved too fast. He remembered Syra screaming, him reaching out to grab her arm and holding tight as the water struck. The torrent had ripped her from him in an instant.
He spun around and hurried inland, scanning the beach, praying the wave had released her before rushing back into the sea. Dozens of tide pools that were not here earlier littered the sand. He tripped over his robes and fell into one, but rose immediately, whipping his head around, staring, searching.
“Syra!”
A hundred paces away, he spotted a gray lump in another pool. The gray robes were a few shades darker from being soaked, but Jhaell recognized the acolyte garb in an instant.
“No…”
He sprinted, his elongated, ijulan arms swinging as he ran.
“Syra!”
He splashed through another pool on his way to her, praying she was simply unconscious. As he neared, he saw that she was on her stomach, her face submerged in the water. The only speck of color in the pool was a lone ribbon in her blond hair. Crimson. Her favorite color.
“Gods, no.”
He leapt into the pool and dropped to
his knees, showering Syra’s back with more water.
“No, no, no…”
Grabbing her shoulder, he flipped her over. Her body was limp, lifeless. Her head rolled as he turned her, revealing a red, bloodless gash running from her left temple to her chin, marring her once beautiful face.
An icy numbness filled Jhaell, thrice as cold as the wet, winter wind. He squeezed his eyes tight, shutting out Syra’s pale, slack face. He hoped the wound meant her death had been a swift one. The thought of her drowning was unbearable.
Cradling her body in his arms, he opened his eyes, stared into hers—sightless though they were—and whispered, “Khirlorn raecil erian elrict, Maeana.”
“Wrong god, Jhaell.”
Startled, Jhaell looked up to find a black-robed saeljul standing a dozen paces away, his hair the same white-blond as Jhaell’s own, but pulled tight and bound with three black cords.
Confused, Jhaell muttered, “Pardon?”
The saeljul folded his hands before him and stepped forward a few paces.
“You are asking the wrong god for aid. Maeana will not answer your plea. She is rather strict with her rules.”
Jhaell’s eyes narrowed. His might be muddled, but he was certain he had never met the person standing before him. “How do you know my name?”
A sly smile spread over the stranger’s lips. “Answer something for me, Jhaell. Do you believe in fate? Or is your life your own to live?”
In no mood for riddles, Jhaell glared at the saeljul and muttered, “Leave me be, whoever you are.”
“Sorry, but I cannot do that. Rather, I will not do that.”
Bewildered and quickly growing angry, Jhaell shouted, “Go away!”
The stranger did not move. Instead, he nodded at Syra’s body and asked, “How are planning on explaining this to your superiors?” He shifted his gaze to Jhaell. “Preceptors getting students killed? That’s not good, Jhaell. Not good at all.”
That this stranger knew so much about him disturbed Jhaell, but not as much as the point the saeljul made. While accidents were common at the academy, deaths were rare. The last had been over three decades ago and the acolyte’s own fault. Looking back down to Syra, he shook his head.
Progeny (The Children of the White Lions) Page 1
