by Anna Steffl
evenSO Press
Prairie Village, Kansas
Copyright © 2014 Anna Steffl
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review. Inquiries should be addressed to evenSO Press, LLC, 3965 West 83rd Street #267, Prairie Village, KS 66208, www.evensopress.com.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2013956883
ISBN (print): 978-0-9911587-0-6
First Edition
Cover design by The Killion Group, Inc.
Cover photo courtesy of Eastgate Resource Ltd.. Moon Stag is © Eastgate Resource Ltd.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover Design and Interior format by The Killion Group
http://thekilliongroupinc.com
DEDICATION
To those who read Seeking Solace and now are reading these words, thank you.
Contents
Solacians
My Pleasure Is Here
Foundlings
A Soldier’s Duty
Grace
Punch
Judges and Prophets
A Devil of a Different Sort
Truth or Torture
A Matter of Conscience
Valor in Service
Many Games Are Played at Once
Duets
A Homecoming
Icons of the Shacras
Forms of Sparring
Through the Spyglass
In the Shadows of the Saviors
Paper Beats Rock
Duty Fulfilled
Duty Rewarded
Even Willows Bloom
The Impossible and the Inevitable
Heaven, Hell, and the Place Between
Pinned by the Stag’s Antlers
An Excerpt from Book III of Solace, Solace Arisen
About the Author
Solacians
Superior Madra Cassandra—head of the Solacian order
Hera Arvana Nazar (Hera Solace)—tasked with finding a champion to wield the Blue Eye
Hera Musette—spiritual advisor to Lady Martise in Acadia
Sarapostans
Prince Gregory Fassal—heir of Sarapost
Captain Myronan Degarius—leader of the Frontiersmen who carries Assaea, a blessed sword
Sergeant Jamis Micah
Corporal Salim
Corporal Nat
Acadians
King Dontyre Lerouge
Prince Chane Lerouge—by inheritance carries Artell, a blessed sword
Princess Jesquin Lerouge—Hera Arvana's student
Lady Martise—widow of the king's brother, hostess to Solacians in Acadia
Attaché Honor Keithan—assistant to the prince
Lord Sebastion—an impoverished nobleman
Miss Gallivere—a friend of the princess
Gherians
Sovereign Alenius
Breena—the sovereign's beloved
Sibelian Aleniusson—adopted son of the sovereign
Cleric Nils—the sovereign's former advisor
Cleric Rorke—chief cleric of the Worship Hall
Lieutenant Juvenot—keeper of Seraph
Creatures
The Scyon—a spirit recalled from Hell
Seraph—the poison draeden
Megreth—the fire draeden
Ancient Heroes
Lukis—ended Reckoning with the blessed sword Artell
Paulus—ended Reckoning with the Blue Eye and the sword Assaea
Mariel—founder of Solace
Relics
Assaea—a blessed sword thought lost
Artell—a blessed sword kept by the Acadians
The Beckoner—a device that resurrects dead spirits into a new body
The Blue Eye—a device that can kill by drawing souls into Hell
MY PLEASURE IS HERE
Perhaps only now is the reason you were chosen for this task fully revealed. Your brother told me what happened the winter you came to Solace. Though caring for your father was a dire duty, you endured. I cannot pretend that our hopes for finding a champion are not greatly diminished by the prince’s failure. But staying the course, though it has grown harder and steeper, is the only path for one with a conscience. What hope you have in staying in Shacra Paulus is impossible to foresee, but the alternative is certainly despair—for what must come and for what might have been.
~ Letter from Superior Madra Cassandra
The Provincial Meeting, the Citadel of Acadia
As they sat on the dais to the king’s left, before hundreds of most important men in the Easternland, Princess Jesquin Lerouge whispered, “It’s beastly hot,” as she randomly pricked the wax tablet on her lap with the stylus.
A better tutor would have hushed her student and made her rub out the pricks, but Arvana felt each one as if it were a gouge in her skin; being in the rotunda reminded her of Prince Chane Lerouge and the failure of her first duty. It was an oppression far heavier than that of air that dripped with the suffocating smell of men sweating off their Rabian perfumes. She dabbed her damp forehead with the sleeve of her gray habit. As the superior wrote, she could endure staying in Shacra Paulus. A part of her knew being here, seeing daily reminders of Chane Lerouge, was a penance for allowing her vanity to persuade her to consider the prince’s advances. How was that shame ever to be lifted from her conscience if she ran from it? But so much more was at stake than her soul that she felt ashamed to even consider it as part of her reason for staying in Shacra Paulus. What was the reason? What chance was there that she would hear of the draeden at this meeting of officials? And if she did, what could she do? Excepting the king’s guard, none of these men, stuffed into silk suits and preening to be seen, could take a sword against a draeden. The superior had no plan. But, to do nothing, keep the relic in Solace, was even less of a plan. Arvana’s mission, which had once been so clear—to judge if Prince Lerouge was worthy and able to use the Blue Eye—had, at his failure, become diffuse, as hazy as the line between sea and sky on a humid day. It now might as well be to mark the days until their doom when the fire draeden would descend from the brutal summer sky to turn an already simmering city into a forbidden, ashy hant. The comparison the superior made to Arvana tending her father was an apt one.
At the announcement, “Governor Keithan of Orlandia’s War Report,” Arvana roused from her gloom. She wished to hear of her friend.
“Must we stay for the whole thing?” the princess groused a little too loudly.
Arvana held her finger to her lips
An official read, “On the inland front, I am grieved to report 1,224 soldiers lost in an engagement at the Fort of the Wide River.”
Dear Keithan. She wished she could test him with the relic, but his allegiance to the crown and Chane meant he would do as others bid.
“Is it ever good news?” Jesquin fanned herself with her hand.
“Stop fanning and take notes.”
The princess rolled her eyes but rubbed the pricks out of the wax. To attend the meeting, which was during tutoring hours, Arvana had told Jesquin it was to be a lesson.
“Prince Lerouge valiantly led the king’s armada in capturing four pirate ships and over four hundred rebels,” the report continued.
Valiant? At the mention of the prince’s name, Arvana’s throat tightened and an image of his fierce
eyes flashed into her mind, but she forced herself to listen.
The report droned on about the logistics of the war. Arvana glanced to the princess’s notes—she was drawing a dress bodice. At least she wasn’t complaining.
Finally, the official rolled the War Report. “King Lerouge receives Prince Gregory Fassal of Sarapost.”
Prince Fassal was Lady Martise’s nephew. He’d paid a moment’s visit to their home last night upon arriving in Shacra Paulus. Easily recognizable by his mop of dark, curly hair, the Sarapostan prince was dodging and weaving through the clusters of officials, rich merchants, and foreign diplomats. Another man, with blond hair tied in a ponytail and easily taller by half a head than the prince, followed him. Why did he look familiar? Ah, he was Chancellor Degarius’s son. He hadn’t come last night, but Prince Fassal had spoken of him. He was tall, just as his father, and they shared the same long hair, but the son wore glasses and had the broad shoulders of a soldier instead of the narrow ones of a diplomat.
King Lerouge greeted Prince Fassal with a barely perceptible nod of his fleshy, bearded chin. It was neither gracious nor welcoming. As Lady Martise explained, the Sarapostans were here to beg for aid from an already strapped Acadia. “How is your father?” the king asked wearily of the prince.
“Excellent, King Lerouge,” the Sarapostan prince answered cheerfully despite the king’s gravity. “He sends his sincere good wishes for your health and prosperity.”
The king shifted his bulk. “You’re here to deal with my armament guilds. You have my leave but expect no donations.”
“Isn’t he handsome?” Jesquin said into Arvana’s ear.
“Who?” Arvana’s gaze went to Chancellor Degarius’s son. He stood with rigid formality, despite the fact that he must be sorely suffering in that heavy black uniform in this heat; his temples were touched with crimson. Years had broadened his face and form, but because he was clean-shaven, in contrast to the majority of men, there was a boyishness to his otherwise stern countenance.
As to who was handsome, Jesquin wrote on the tablet, “The prince, of course!”
Prince Fassal said, “Allow me the honor of introducing Captain Degarius of the Third Frontiersmen Regiment, commissioned now as my counselor. He is the finest swordsman and recent recipient of our highest honor, the Valor in Service medal.”
Captain Degarius bowed to the king.
“The finest swordsman?” The king eyed the captain. “What is a Sarapostan champion compared to an Acadian? You know a horse that wins the race in the village doesn’t necessarily win the one in town.”
Fassal, with a cheeky smile, replied, “The horse does not necessarily lose, either.”
Inwardly Arvana half smiled at the truth of the Sarapostan’s wit. The best of her family’s horses could outrun any of the horses in the Lerouge stable. She half grimaced, too, though. Expecting King Lerouge to be in a humorous mood after hearing of his losses in Orlandia was a mistake.
As she expected, the king looked annoyed. He addressed the captain, “You receive high praise. Is it true?”
Captain Degarius clasped his hands behind his back and stretched his chest wide, making the tapestry of medals on his coat appear even more prominent. “I’m not at liberty to question my prince’s judgment.”
King Lerouge circled his lips thoughtfully, then smirked in a way that showed malice. “Would you oblige an old fool, a great devotee of swordsmanship, and be subject to a king’s rating of your skill?”
“At your pleasure,” the captain said.
“My pleasure is here and now.”
“Now?” Prince Fassal asked with a questioning glance to the captain.
“I am at your pleasure,” Captain Degarius repeated.
The king bid a page to fetch two shields, and then he motioned one of the soldiers standing guard behind the throne to come forward. “This is Marchand, a Household Guard and not a poor example of the swordsmen of Acadia. This will be a treat, Captain Degarius, provided the prince has not exaggerated your talent.” To both he ordered, “Don’t draw a wound. There must be some decorum in court.”
The Sarapostans stepped to Arvana’s side of the dais. Captain Degarius gave the prince his hat and then sized his opponent before handing his glasses over, too.
The crowd pushed back, creating an open area before the dais for the swordsmen.
As if confident the Sarapostan was a hack, Marchand handled his weapon glibly. Men in the back perching on chairs for a better view applauded Marchand’s disdain for his opponent until the Sarapostan captain, with a well-timed flick of his blade, knocked the loosely held sword from the Acadian’s hand. The merriment of the crowd ceased as a glowering Marchand stooped to retrieve his weapon.
In the break in the action, Prince Fassal turned and smiled at Jesquin.
The princess went red, and the moment the Sarapostan prince returned to watching the swordsmen, she doodled a heart next to his name.
The men were fighting again. King Lerouge raptly followed each move as they incrementally sparred harder. Arvana wished they’d stop. It was becoming more than a demonstration, but the king made no move to halt it even though it was obvious it wasn’t going to end as he hoped. His well-known love of swordsmanship seemed to have won out over his desire to punish Prince’s Fassal cheekiness.
Marchand scowled and aimed a fierce blow at the captain, who at the last moment, glided just out of reach. Captain Degarius moved with a grace Arvana hadn’t expected from the stiff way he’d stood before the king. Marchand’s weight plunged into empty air. He fell heavily on his knee and his blade clanged brightly to the dais steps.
King Lerouge’s long, slow claps, echoed eerily. “I now know to take Prince Fassal at his word.” He cast a disparaging look at Marchand, who was limping away. To the captain he said, “If my son Chane were here, the match would have ended differently, though you are skilled. Tell me, what feat earned you the medal of valor your prince mentioned?”
The captain’s eyes narrowed and his jaw set. He resheathed his sword. “A mission in the Borderlands.”
Prince Fassal cried, “Degarius is too modest, King Lerouge. Single-handedly he fought a sea monster, or lake monster, rather.”
At the crowd’s laughter, Prince Fassal held up the captain’s glasses and exclaimed, “We had a witness.”
A lake? A monster? Suddenly, Arvana was seeing the man whose hair clung in wet strands around his face, the man with sword raised over his head. The vision of him through the Blue Eye, being dragged underwater, his hair then eerily floating, his breath escaping in a veil of bubbles, wasn’t drawn on a wax tablet in her memory that could be erased with a rub. It was imprinted like an image in the finely crafted books in the archive. Surely it was him. Not drowned. He was alive and before her. She pressed her hands together in her lap. Oh dearest, most merciful, most loving Maker. My kindly superior. How could I doubt your wisdom?
“Did you kill it and take a trophy of this lake monster?” the king asked the Sarapostans. “A tooth? A bone?”
“Nothing, King Lerouge. I can’t say for certain I killed it. I did injure it.”
“He disabled it, cut off its wing,” Prince Fassal added.
Captain Degarius, having taken his glasses back, wound the arm of the spectacles about his ear.
Jesquin touched Arvana’s arm. “Are you sick?”
Arvana didn’t know if she nodded or shook her head no. It was he.
“A wing? Or was it a flipper of sorts? A great pity you didn’t kill it. It would fetch a vast sum from a collector of oddities. Speaking of collecting...” The king pointed to the captain’s scabbard. “I have a fine collection of swords. Your blade is beautiful. Show it to me.”
As the captain mounted the podium, he flinched ever so slightly at each step. Had he been injured during the fight? It all happened so fast. Perhaps he had sprained an ankle. When he stopped and held the blade for inspection, the faint sign of duress was gone, though.
“What sort of writ
ing is on the blade?” asked the king.
“From the tribes of the Reckoning.”
“Ah, so it is very old indeed. Has anyone figured out what it says?”
“No.”
“Again, a pity my son isn’t here. He has a fondness for puzzles such as these.”
Jesquin’s sweet voice floated through the thick afternoon air. “Perhaps Hera Solace knows the symbols.”
“Solacian,” the king said.
If the captain truly killed a draeden, he must have a blessed sword. Would he have brought it to Acadia? Surely not. But, he said he didn’t know if he’d killed the monster. He thought he’d only disabled it by cutting off a wing. Perhaps he didn’t even suspect it was a draeden. After seven hundred years, who would dream they could exist again? Her heart racing, Arvana rose and knelt before the king.
“Rise,” the king said. “Hera, do you know this writing?”
The sword looked nothing like Lukis’s blade. Her hope sank. She sat to studying the script, tilting her head to counter the glare coming in from the high windows. A transient design flickered near the hilt, then disappeared. She looked back to the main lettering. It wasn’t in Anglish script. She was certain she’d seen it, though. On a wall of the tiny sanctuary were one kissed the Blue Eye during the engagement ceremony, In Thy Kiss is a Taste of Eternity was carved repeatedly in many of the old tongues and in the secret symbols the faithful used to message each other so that The Scyon’s agents couldn’t understand them. The sword’s lettering resembled one set of symbols. And it was the phrase that made her think Mariel’s purported letter Chane had shown her in the bedchamber was authentic. It could be a coincidence, but... “Please Captain, might I—” She hovered over the blade, trying to catch another glimpse of the mark. There. In the stylized waves of a horse’s mane were three hidden letters H, C, A in the Old Anglish alphabet. But if it was a blessed sword, the man who made it spoke Frankish, as Prince Lerouge said, and the letters would be pronounced osh, say, ah.
“Well,” the king asked, “can you read it?”
Osh, say, ah. It sounded so familiar. The syllables tumbled over each other. Osh, say, ah. Osh, say, ah was Assaea. Paulus’s sword. Her heart leaped. She glanced around her veil at the captain. Did he have an inkling of what he carried, or the danger it was in if the king knew what it was? The captain wore the same stern expression as earlier. In the steadiest voice she could muster, she lied, “I recognize the name Thiabault from a list of the early shacras who died while spreading the word of The Scyon’s demise to the western barbarians. Perhaps it was his piece, or a tribute to him.”
