She froze, she did not have her satchel, having left it in Ember’s hiding place. It was quite unlike her, but the day had been full of the unexpected, and her mind was frayed and at loose ends.
Murmur noted her wide-eyed expression and nudged his own satchel toward her, which lay at his feet. She knelt, shooting him a grateful expression as the two men continued to talk.
“I suspect that this is a message from the Mother,” Oval said. “It has been many years since She has sent us communication so clear.”
“Or so inscrutable,” Murmur added.
“Hmm.” Oval strolled over to the chieftain and Murmur crouched down.
“What do you think? Is this one of the mysteries of the Mother?” he asked.
Her fingers shook under his perusal of her. She dropped the packet she had grabbed and scrabbled to pick it up again. “H-her ways are often beyond our understanding.”
“True, they are. However, if something like this happens again, certain suspicions may arise.” He looked at her significantly. The man who’d raised her and instructed her in the use of her Song was canny, and he suspected something.
She did not want to lie to him but feared his censure. “I—I…” She had no idea what she wanted to say. Fortunately, he glanced away toward the chieftain and his dead son. She finally settled on, “No one was seriously harmed, other than Rumble?”
“No. A few bruises and bumped heads, but nothing major.”
She exhaled slowly still searching for the words to admit to him what she’d done. “I’m sorry, I—”
“Perhaps some things should remain a mystery,” he said, drawing a line in the dirt with a finger.
Her mouth fell open and her breathing grew even shakier.
“Everyone will have their theories. Some will, no doubt, grow more popular than others over time. So long as this never happens again.” His piercing gaze cut through her, and she nodded.
“I’m sure it never will.”
“Good.” He continued drawing in the dirt—another line and then three circles, separated by the two lines.
“Why?” He was effectively telling her not to tell him or anyone else what she’d done. Murmur knew more about her power than anyone, but apparently did not want to have any more information to verify his suspicions. He was trusting her to control herself better in the future—which she fully intended to do. She would train and practice even more until not even strong emotion would push her to where she’d been yesterday. But she didn’t understand why he would bother to protect her.
“I had another vision.” He looked around at the chaos unfolding around them. “I will tell you about it later, but it concerns your future. The path ahead is rocky for you, my dear. It holds happiness—” His gaze moved to Ember. “But also many trials. And your road is longer than you probably expect. You will be needed in the days to come. You must continue to prepare and study.”
She nodded, her shoulders releasing the tension she didn’t realize they held. “I will. And thank you.”
He pursed his lips, his eyes seeing something far away. Maybe recalling his vision. “Don’t thank me yet. By the time all is done, you may feel quite differently.”
He looked down at his simple drawing. Three globes divided. She didn’t know what it meant, and he wiped it away before standing and dusting his palms.
Part of her wondered what his vision would mean for her. But the other part was deeply grateful for the reprieve he’d given.
The official placed the ribbons of victory on Ember’s shoulders and stepped away. A chill went through him, and his father stepped up beside him. No one in the audience was paying attention, still chattering away with one another, no doubt about the strange circumstances of their collective comas.
Ember sought out Mooriah and found her standing alone, expression plaintive. He motioned for her to come over, but she shook her head and crossed her arms over herself.
Crimson held his hands up over his head and waited for the crowd to settle and hush. Quiet descended as the clan awaited the words of their chieftain. The energy bubbling around was cautious and curious.
“I know that we all want answers as to the strange occurrences of today. One thing is clear, I have lost a son during the brawl. What the Mountain Mother and the Breath Father give unto us, they also take away.”
“Umlah,” the crowd repeated as one.
Rumble’s body was still there laying at their feet. It was not the Cavefolk way to hide the dead with covers as if afraid to look upon them. Ember glanced at his brother’s lifeless face. The medic had been shocked to discover that Rumble’s eyes were completely blackened but posited that he might have accidentally ingested some of the poison he’d tried to kill Ember with. It was a decent explanation as no one knew what poison it was.
Crimson continued. “The Mother showed favor to my son Ember, saving him from the poisoned blade. And the prophet Murmur and our shaman, Oval, believe that while She delivered Ember from harm, She blessed the rest of us with sleep so as to keep Her mysteries intact.”
Gasps sounded in the audience as this news penetrated.
“It was the Mother’s will!” someone shouted.
“We are truly blessed by Her!” cried another. Exclamations of praise and gratitude rose until Crimson hushed them all again.
He gazed at Ember, solemnly. “My heir and your future chieftain is one consecrated by the Mother. Sanctified by the Breath Father who poured breath back into his lungs. Night Snow will be led by a warrior embraced by both our divine parents, and he will lead our clan to heights heretofore unseen!”
The crowd exploded into cheers. People cried out, chanting his name. “Ember! Ember!” He had no idea when Crimson had decided to spin the mystery into some divine selection, and as much as it made him uncomfortable, he had to admit it was brilliantly done.
The mass fainting of the entire clan could make them look weak, both to others and among themselves. It could deplete morale and give an opening to other clans to sow seeds of dissent. But if their chieftain was chosen by the divine parents—then Night Snow maintained its superiority, one touched by sacred hands.
And while to Crimson, this might be fertile ground on which to start another war, to Ember this was the planting ground for lasting peace. This tale could help his quest to eventually unite the clans under one banner and preserve their true strength for as along as possible against the threat of dying out.
As the crowd continued to cheer, he acknowledged their praise with a bow. When he rose, he was pleased to see Mooriah approaching Oval. There was no doubt some type of ritual necessary now that he had been chosen as heir.
He looked around them and found Glister slowly retreating. She was sliding backward through the group of highly ranked clan members that usually flanked Crimson, trying to remain inconspicuous.
He motioned to Coal, the clan Protector, who approached. “Have Glister taken to the detention chamber. She has displeased me.” Coal bowed and motioned to a guard who went to apprehend the woman. She had much to answer for.
Ember turned back as the crowd’s chanting began to subside and lifted his arms to quiet them. Now that he was the heir, his commands were second only to Crimson’s. And there was one thing he needed to take care of immediately.
He stepped forward to address his clan. “I am honored to be chosen as the heir and future chieftain. To serve Night Snow has long been my dream. I would also like to thank the Mountain Mother and Breath Father for their gracious blessings. I also owe a debt to the ancestors for their wisdom, to my mother, Raven, whose sacrifice has served the clan and my father, Crimson, who has led us with distinction for so long.”
Applause and hurrahs rang out. But Ember was not done.
“Before the ritual begins, I would also like to show appreciation to our prophet, Murmur, for the gift of his visions and our shaman, Oval, for his protection of our home, our persons, and our spirits. Their work is essential to the clan. And to our future shaman, Mooriah
—she has my deepest gratitude.”
A hush settled over everyone as he called out a woman as yet unclanned. He turned to her, noting her shocked expression. “And beyond my gratitude, she holds my heart. If she will have me, I would make her my wife.”
Mooriah’s eyes widened and she blinked rapidly. She didn’t appear to be breathing.
Beside him, Crimson hissed, “She is unclanned, son.”
Ember smiled. “The chieftain’s wife is by definition clan. Once we wed, she will be Lady of the Clan.” He approached her, holding out his hands, waiting for her to accept them.
She looked around the silent arena. It was as if everyone was holding their collective breaths, awaiting her next move.
She extended shaking hands to him and grabbed hold. He squeezed her, and a band around his heart loosened.
“Will you have me? Will you be my wife, Mooriah?”
She was quivering, and it took her a moment to speak. “Yes, of course I will.” He grinned and pulled her toward him.
Then the crowd began to cheer, more raucous and livelier than ever before. Chants went up of, “Ember! Ember! Mooriah! Mooriah!” They echoed through the stone walls of the arena all the way to the ceiling high above.
Holding her tight in his embrace, he whispered in her ear, “I am yours alone for as long as you’ll have me.”
“Well, you have me for life,” she said, burying her face in his chest.
He was not sure that was long enough. But he would be happy to find out.
Fenix and Mooriah return in Requiem of Silence (Earthsinger Chronicles book 4).
If you’re new to the Earthsinger Chronicles series, start at the beginning with book one, Song of Blood & Stone, to learn more about Yllis, The Mantle, and the war between Earthsingers and the Silent.
Also By L. Penelope
Earthsinger Chronicles
Song of Blood & Stone
Breath of Dust & Dawn
Whispers of Shadow & Flame
Cry of Metal & Bone
Requiem of Silence
The Eternal Flame Series
Angelborn
Angelfall
Standalones
The Cupid Guild
About the Author
L. Penelope is an award-winning fantasy and paranormal romance author. Equally left and right-brained, she studied filmmaking and computer science in college and sometimes dreams in HTML. She lives in Maryland with her husband and furry dependents. Sign up for new release information, exclusives, and giveaways on her website: http://www.lpenelope.com.
A Memory of Summer
by
Grace Draven
Spinsterhood has never bothered or embarrassed the independent Emerence Ipsan, and the winter festival of Delyalda keeps her far too busy managing her father’s shops to worry about matters as trivial as marriage.
Until the arrival of a young Quereci warrior with old eyes and an admiring gaze makes her question that notion.
A MEMORY OF SUMMER is a short novella that takes place in the world of the Wraith Kings series. For those who’ve read the first three books in the series (RADIANCE, EIDOLON, THE IPPOS KING), this storyline takes place after EIDOLON and before THE IPPOS KING. It runs concurrently with events in the novella IN THE DARKEST MIDNIGHT and reintroduces the Wraith king Gaeres.
Copyright © 2020 by Denise Shaw
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or business establishments, organizations or locales is completely coincidental.
“I hear Yeoman Percivus is looking for a wife.” Glauca made the announcement as she refilled jars with dried herbs Emerence had sorted for her. “He’s a wealthy farmer. He just bought his neighbor’s holdings to increase his own.”
Emerence sighed inwardly as she weighed dried rosehips on a scale. Her cousin was an unashamed matchmaker. A relentless one as well. “I wish him well. His income will guarantee no lack of candidates interested in becoming the third Madam Percivus.
Glauca clucked her disapproval at Emerence’s obvious disinterest. “I’ve met him. He’s pleasant and his children well-behaved. Both of his wives seemed happy. A shame one died in childbirth and the other from lung fever. But that wasn’t his fault.”
Emerence paused in her task to stare at her with a raised eyebrow. “If I didn’t already know you were happily married, I’d think you were considering throwing in your ribbon for a chance at becoming the newest Percivus bride.”
This time Glauca sniffed, as if Emerence’s teasing carried a bad scent. She closed the lid on the jar she’d filled and reached for another. “I would but as you say, I’m married. You, however, are not, nor are you getting any younger. Yeoman Percivus would be perfect. He isn’t in his dotage, already has several children, and has a purse fat enough to keep you comfortable for the rest of your life with no need to birth more children for him.”
“Sounds glorious,” Emerence said dryly. She loved her cousin and knew Glauca loved her in return. It was why she remained so persistent in her quest to see Emerence married even after others had given up their matchmaking attempts years earlier. Still, there were times, like now, when Emerence found her efforts more annoying than endearing.
“I’m perfectly content with my life as it is, cousin. I manage two shops, own my own home, and control my time as I see fit.” Emerence sometimes envied the companionship other women of her acquaintance shared with their spouses and offspring, but she’d seen a similar envy of her in the eyes of some of those wives and mothers shackled by the demands of marriage and parenthood. She wasn’t afraid of such bonds; she just had no intention of rushing toward them just for the sake of avoiding the stigma of spinsterhood.
“But you’re almost seven and thirty,” Glauca all but wailed, as if such a ripe old age heralded Emerence’s impending doom.
Emerence couldn’t help it. She laughed and continued laughing despite Glauca’s glare. Once her spate of humor subsided, she wiped the tears from her eyes. “You say that as if I’m at death’s door. I assure you my life will not end at the arrival of seven and thirty.” She uttered the last in a voice pitched low as if another year in her lifespan would thunder past her instead of breeze by as every year always did, hardly marked, barely noticed.
“Don’t you want a husband?” Glauca wrenched the lid closed on the jar she held and yanked another empty one toward her. “You can’t live with your father and Linnett forever.”
Emerence shrugged, dividing her attention between Glauca’s task and her own of pulverizing a batch of nightshade in a mortar with a pestle. “I don’t live with them,” she said. “I live next door as you well know, and I never said I didn’t want a husband, only that I won’t settle for one.”
“Same thing, Emerence.”
“No it isn’t.” She had no illusions regarding the existence of the perfect man. She just preferred to wait for one who was perfect for her. If he never showed, well that was a risk worth taking in her opinion.
The two women fell silent as they continued to work. These were the darkest days of winter, just before the Festival of Delyalda, and those citizens of Timsiora sick with coughs and other lung ailments were numerous. One of the shops Emerence’s father owned was this apothecary, and this was its busiest season. Emerence and Glauca had worked long hours already restocking the shelves from the rapidly diminishing inventory of herbs and spices while in the front room where products were displayed and sold, a small army of clerks dealt with a steady stream of customers.
“I just don’t want you to be unhappy,” Glauca finally said, breaking the silence. She opened a jar of glue and
fished a paintbrush from her apron pocket.
Emerence slid her a stack of labels with the names of various concoctions and other herbal combinations written on them. “Do I look unhappy to you?” She was restless at times, more so each year while she lived and worked in the Beladine capital and never went more than a league beyond its walls, but she wasn’t unhappy.
Her question made Glauca frown. “No, but we all hide things from each other.” She lined the labels up in front of their matching jars, turning the first one to paint glue on its surface and affix a label. “I don’t want you to be lonely either. All by yourself in your house at night with no one to talk to.”
If Glauca only knew how much Emerence treasured those hours, she wouldn’t worry so much. “I deal with people all day, every day, Glauca. Customers, suppliers, caravans, other merchants. By the time I can escape to my house, I’m desperate for the solitude. You worry for nothing.”
She hadn’t denied being lonely, but everyone experienced loneliness. It wasn’t synonymous with solitude. Emerence dealt with her bouts of it by staying busy, so busy that exhaustion kept it at bay, even on those nights when she fell into bed and wondered what it might be like to share the space with a lover and wake to his presence at dawn.
Thankfully, Glauca let the matter of Yeoman Percivus’s bride search drop, and their conversation turned to the idle chatter and gossip that made the drudgery of inventory replenishment less wearisome. They were interrupted not long after by a harried clerk who burst into the stock room, eyes wide, face flushed. “Mae Ipsan,” he sad on a gasp, using the informal title instead of the more formal “madam” to address Emerence. “Culkhen Goa is back making trouble out front, and there’s a group of Quereci here asking for you.”
Under a Winter Sky Page 34
