As I walk through the streets I notice the homes here are mostly made of brick with tiled roofs. I see children playing in the streets as merchants align the avenues to sell their goods. All in all, Silverwater seems to be a place of great joy, unlike the perpetual cloud of gloom that was written in The Mad Raven’s Tale. I cannot blame the locals for their joviality, the weather here is as close to perfection as it can be. I have asked a couple of people if they have ever seen snow, none of which ever have, even the older denizens have no memory of fluffy flakes falling from the sky. This leads me to believe that whoever is responsible for writing the story of Count Aldamar and Countess Morganna had never visited this wonderful locale, otherwise, they would have known winter has never touched this land. I am also starting to believe that Amantius and Ulam, and all the events that took place in The Mad Raven’s Tale, are a complete work of fiction. It is possible the story was rooted in some actual event, as many legends are, but had taken on fictional elements through time. Perhaps a rebellion had taken place centuries ago between siblings, familial power struggles are nothing new, but I doubt that an Orc and his foster-brother forever changed history due to their actions. I just find such a thing impossible to believe, not to mention there have not been any reported cases of vampirism in the past five or six centuries, and even those accusations were most likely made to further personal agendas. Regardless, I have come here for a reason, and that is to potentially locate volumes three and four of the Accarian Chronicles. And, maybe I will enjoy some local cuisine and drink.
As I climbed the hill to the castle the guards spotted me and asked my name and my purpose. I was able to secure entry by presenting my badge to them, which bore the insignia of the Academy. However, I must admit, for a moment I was truly worried I had just traveled the length of the continent only to be denied access. After all, how much sway could one of the Academy’s apprentice mages possibly have on the other side of the continent?
Once through the gates, I began to take in the architecture of the castle, guessing by the style and materials it had been built only a few hundred years ago. This discovery disappointed me, of course, because I had hoped to find the castle to be the same as the one in The Mad Raven’s Tale. Of course, that was nothing more than a delusion, because only a master architect could have built a castle to have lasted over a thousand years and still be habitable.
Upon entering the castle I asked the first person I saw to point me to the library, once again having to display my badge. An accommodating attendant led me through a corridor until we came to a large hall, all the while a guard hovered directly behind me. They were nuisances, what with their boots thudding on the tiled floor behind me, however, I understood the necessity. I suppose from their perspective espionage could be in order, though I find that is beyond absurd. I am here to uncover long-lost books, not secret plans.
I passed through an elaborate doorway into the library where I was shocked by what I saw. Rows and rows of shelves, as far as I could see, like a field of crops stretching to the horizon. I was overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of the library, books upon books, scrolls and maps as well. A man could spend his entire life in this library and still only read a quarter of the books here. How was I to find a specific book amongst this ocean of literature?
“I can see from your expression this is your first time here,” a scholar said to me, an elderly man with a serious face and dark eyes. His skin was pale like mine, clearly, he did not see the sun much either. “Tell me, what has brought you here?”
“I am looking for a book series,” I said to him, “I do not know its proper name, I have just been referring to it as The Accarian Chronicles. They are multiple volumes, at least five that I know, and I only possess books one, two, and five.”
“The Accarian Chronicles you say?” The old man said, his voice surprisingly strong for his age. “Unfortunately I can only be of minimal help,” he led me to one side of the library, down a long aisle. “If I have such a work here, it is most likely in this aisle. This section is dedicated to myths, legends, and history, both local and distant. Perhaps there? Best of luck to you.”
“My thanks.” I turned to face the man, but he was gone. He seemed to disappear into the shadows of the library without a sound.
I set off, scanning the shelves for anything that looked relevant. At about the halfway point of the aisle, I noticed portraits were hung on the wall behind me, paintings of the Counts and Countesses of Silverwater. Centuries worth of rulers who governed this southern city, stewards of the single largest wine exporter in the world, as well as one of the main ports connecting the other continents of the world with Qerus. The first portrait I saw was of Countess Zerana, the first countess. After her was her son, Count Ferran, then her grandson, Count Lorient. Before long I found myself examining the portraits, no longer paying any heed to the books. I was surprised that there was a painting for each count and countess, a long tradition that seemed to go unbroken.
Countless names passed through my mind until I saw one I noticed, one that took me by surprise. At first, I could not believe what I saw, but as I investigated the portrait I came to accept it. Towards the back of the library was a portrait of an old man, with milky white skin and dark eyes. He wore a purple robe with a silver crescent moon emblazoned on the shoulder. Although I had never seen this man in my life, and he had been dead for a very long time, I knew exactly who was in the portrait. It was Count Aldamar.
Count Aldamar had been real. I moved to the next portrait, the man looked exactly the same, only in a different setting. I used the sleeve of my tunic to wipe the plaque at the bottom of the frame, where the name “Count Aldamar II” had been engraved. I moved to the next, and then the one after it. Every successive count was the same man with the same expression and features, except for Count Aldamar IV. The fourth Aldamar had a silver scar across his neck, looking like he had been cut at some point between Aldamar III and Aldamar IV. I could not believe what I had just discovered, the excitement giving me such a jolt of energy. I practically started running through the library, my eyes fixated on the portraits. I ran until the picture finally changed, no longer of Count Aldamar, but instead to a woman named Countess Mercet.
I caught my breath and returned to the last portrait of Aldamar, which looked very much like all the others. He still had the silver scar across his neck, and he still wore the same purple robe. Using my sleeve again I revealed the name at the bottom and gasped when I read the words. Count Aldamar XXVII
“Count Aldamar the Twenty-Seventh,” I whispered. “But how?”
That was not the only question in my mind. If this was, indeed, the same man twenty-seven times over, then was the story of his vampirism true? I was inclined to believe Morganna was not the invention of some creative mind, now that I saw the scar across Count Aldamar IV through XXVII’s necks. And if all this was true, then how did Count Aldamar die? What killed him?
“I guess I will never know,” I muttered as I stared at the last portrait.
I turned my attention to one of the windows in the library and watched as a puffy white cloud slowly moved across the blue sky. I had come so far to see this library, to find answers to some of the questions I had been asking since I discovered The Accarian Chronicles. But this journey has only raised more questions, most of which will probably forever go unanswered. But there is one answer that, above all others, I desire to know:
Were Amantius and Ulam real?
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I grew up in West Virginia in a place called Point Pleasant, a small town nestled against the Ohio River a few hours away from everything. I could not be happier with where I was born and raised, because one of the greatest advantages of growing up in Appalachia was that I was surrounded by some of the best storytellers in the world. While kids in other parts of the country were at malls or at amusement parks, I grew up surrounded by people with vivid imaginations, armed with story-telling techniques passed down to them from their Scottish/Irish
/Hungarian/German immigrant parents and grandparents. I grew up in the shadow of the Mothman, a legendary creature that terrorized the Point Pleasant area in the 1960s. There was also Cornstalk’s Curse, named after the Shawnee warrior who allegedly cursed Point Pleasant with his dying breath while he was being murdered by European settlers at Fort Randolph. With every misfortunate event that strikes the area, Cornstalk’s Curse gets another chapter.
There are hundreds of other local legends and ghost stories that can be found in other books, many of which have roots in the Old World. I only give these two as examples of the rich storytelling environment I was born into and molded by, as a way of explaining where my love for fiction originated. In this way I want to acknowledge the State of West Virginia, and Appalachia as a whole, for nurturing my creativity.
If I were to list everyone who has helped me along the way, I would have to add an additional 300 pages to the book. Chief among them is April Stevens, my girlfriend of many years, who has spent countless hours giving feedback and listening to me whine about having to do actual work. My close friend Joe Messmer, who was one of the first people to read the original draft of the Mad Raven’s Tale, and has helped me navigate the waters of this whole process. Kit Dennis, who gave me food and shelter during the most vulnerable point of my life, and told me every day not to give up on my dreams. Cristina Tănase, the brilliant artist who designed the cover of this book, whose enthusiasm for this series is utterly contagious. Todd Gavin, an artist in New York City who, as a complete stranger, gave me his laptop after I told him that my computer was destroyed in a flood, with the caveat that I get published someday (I did it!).
And most importantly, Curtis “CC” McConihay. My best friend and brother, who tragically lost his life a few months before publishing. While Ulam is not based on CC in any way, the love Amantius and Ulam have for one another is definitely influenced by the brotherly love CC and I shared.
I love you, Bub.
About the Author
Andrew Walbrown is a guy who hates writing about himself, because Orcs, Dwarves, Trolls, Gnomes, and everything else is so much cooler. But if you want to know about him, he grew up in West Virginia and started college in his home-state, before finishing his education in Massachusetts. He earned a degree in history, and proceeded to use it to become a bartender, because unfortunately the Gods did not give him the gift of foresight. When he’s not making the best Manhattans and Cosmos that you’ve ever had, he spends time over-salting everything he cooks, watching his favorite sports teams lose, and wishing that he could find a portal to an alternate universe where he could eat ice cream all day without gaining a single pound.
Also his cat is suuuuuper cute.
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