by Louis Emery
Cinders on the Wind
The Tapestry of Retha:
Book One
Louis Emery
For my family
CINDERS ON THE WIND
Copyright © 2017 by Louis Emery
Cover Art © 2017 by Rene Aigner
All rights reserved.
Copyedited by Janet Devlin
Map by Louis Emery
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and scenarios are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
1
Colossal crowds gathered and an inexplicable magic hung in the air. Knights and soldiers marched forward to the applause of the citizens, their procession soon followed by the noble families of different regions with their own guards and servants. Em Regis was abuzz as lords and their entourages from surrounding kingdoms came to participate in the year’s largest, most lavish tournaments. Where knights battled with sword, mace, and lance in the hope of honoring their leaders in victory, and to win a prize bestowed by the king himself.
Ethlin breathed deeply as a hint of perfume wafted from passing noblewomen leaning out of their ornate carriages, waving at the crowds. She’d never smelled anything so exotic and foreign. It was exhilarating. The clip-clop of healthy steeds and rattle of armored knights atop them created an electricity—an anticipation that drew the throng along the cobbles leading to the Gray Keep and the tournament grounds within.
King Greenvale would raise the portcullis and let them set up camp around his castle, opening the weeklong extravaganza with an enormous feast. Ethlin was envious of those ladies, off to enjoy sumptuous table settings, assorted victuals, and vintage wines from the king’s cellars.
“Don’t be too enamored, my dear.”
Ethlin looked up to the face of her benefactor, Priestess Patrycias. “But they live in such comfort.”
“Comfort can be paid in more than gold,” Patrycias replied, setting her hand gently on Ethlin’s head. “Still … it is quite a sight to see.” The priestess’s eyes went back to the procession. Her flowing, sapphire blue robe and commanding presence made her seem like royalty. Ethlin couldn’t wait to shed her light blue robe and don the darker shade worn by her kind and nurturing guardian, a Dragonmother, not an apprentice.
A chill ran through her, and she gazed back to the crowd opposite them. Two stern-faced men looked directly at her, and she turned away. Not everyone was familiar with the temple of the Dragonmother, and the robes tended to draw attention. But when she looked again, the two men were looking elsewhere.
A lord dressed in an immaculate, embroidered tunic with a falcon sigil and adorned in glimmering armor approached amidst the newly arrived travelers. His hair and mustachio were well trimmed, but he appeared intimidating with his broad build, riding his burly horse. He was flanked by mounted guards encircling his family in the commodious carriage behind him, made of well-cut oak and topped with two large stone falcons stretching their wings.
Ethlin started to feel dizzy, and her legs wobbled.
“Are you all right, dear?” Patrycias said, grabbing her arm to steady her.
“I’ve seen something.”
“A vision? What—what is it?”
Ethlin blinked slowly. This helped, along with Patrycias’ grip.
Her mind flashed through a series of scenes, and she couldn’t keep her eyes from rolling back into her head. After a minute or so, she opened them.
“Are you going to be okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine now. I think.” She rubbed her eyes, and her surroundings appeared normal. “The lord over there, with the falcon crest … I saw him die in the tournament.”
“You’re certain? Was it an accident?”
“No … no accident. The thin faced man—the guard behind him.”
“One of his own guards?”
“An assassin.”
“This is serious, Ethlin. That’s Lord Staverly. He holds one of the larger kingdoms in the west, a distant cousin to the king, I believe. You’re certain about this?”
She nodded, gazing at a resplendent champion trotting by with flagged lance. When he passed, she saw the two men staring at her again.
“There are two men over there …”
“I know.” The priestess looked gravely in their direction. “Not everyone respects the Dragonmother. Some would wish us harm.”
The two men noticed the priestess eyeing them, and they averted their glare. Moments later, they left the crowd. Ethlin and Patrycias did the same.
2
“One would think I’ve enough to deal with, feeding over twenty noble families.”
From where Ser Malcolm Longstride stood, King Greenvale looked tired. He wished he could give the man council, but then again Kingsguard weren’t to give advice unless asked. It prided Malcolm that on past occasions the king had sought his opinion. But recently, he was far too preoccupied.
“Days before the year’s largest tournament paid mostly from my coffers, and I hear reports of these Rousers of Redwoodia giving me redwood splinters in my red arse.” King Greenvale’s ruddy visage was compounded by the flowing ermine robes he wore.
Ser Malcolm held back a grin. It was his duty to stand guard and be passive. At times, it was difficult.
“Three nobles killed last month, including one of our lords, your grace,” Advisor Street said, his voice monotone. “As I’m sure your cousin has informed you, sire, the Redwoodian Rebellion in the Prestonpan Isles is being fought more through the use of assassins than actual soldiers.”
“Well, I don’t trust the stability of the islands. Lord Staverly has little trouble with his subjects in the Fells, the Redwoodians there not being as numerous.” The king slapped the table, a scowl on his visage. “I don’t care if they’re a self-made kingdom and now want autonomy in the Isles. You know my daughter-in-law, the princess, was once swooped up by one of them—a Redwoodian spy, pretending to be a Backlander in my own court. My son would’ve lost the love of his life if that conniving rascal had got his claws in her. If I continue to hear of killings by Redwoodian assassins, I’ll station a Backland-Prestonpan joint garrison on every island to subdue the renegades.”
“Very good, your grace,” Advisor Street said. “Next topic. The Ballardians are feuding with Sarcragg. Two battles, both Ballardian victories. It seems they will make the Craggs pay proper taxes in short order.”
“Just as long as they don’t dispute our tariffs and get greedy for our territories again,” King Greenvale said. “The Ballardians should’ve learned their lesson with us. Backlanders will not reply meekly to aggression.”
Advisor Tunstall agreed. “Ballardia has a large army, but I do not think they’d risk prodding us—given Nasantium’s stance on breaking their neutrality and joining the fray on our side, should they march this way.”
“I’m glad King Lionel is putting his foot down,” the king said. Malcolm thought the color of his face turned a healthier shade. “Now, what’s this I hear about there not being enough seating for Lord Bartleby and his family on the nobles’ side of the tournament?”
During talk of the tournament, Malcolm thought of the man on the throne. The king wasn’t his father, but he might as well have been. He remembered most of it, despite the chaos. Malcolm was four years old, his sister a baby at the time. His natural father, a renowned general, had ordered the evacuation of the entire town where they lived, outside the Gatekeeper City. The Gothveesi Hordes advanced, and the people scrambled and fled to the great city, seeking shelter and protection behind its massive walls and gates.
His father rushed into their home after battle, drying blood on his plate armor and surcoat.
Malcolm remembered him frantically helping his mother packing and loading their essential possessions into the cart waiting outside. Soldiers of his father’s brigade assisted them and their neighbors.
When the great mass of helmed and ironclad warriors appeared on the horizon, his father ordered them to stop, drop everything, and retreat to Barrport. After reaching the great city, Malcolm saw King Greenvale’s face for the first time. He looked out the window of his new makeshift home, owned by the city’s noblemen. He saw hope on his father’s face as he rode side-by-side with the Backland king, offering an army and indispensable aid to the barbarian-invaded nation.
His father and King Greenvale were to be the saviors of their kingdoms, for the Gothveesi overwhelmed the eastern side of the map. Both men rode their armies out to meet their enemy but were pushed back into the city. More troops were called from the western defenses, but before they could launch another deflecting attack, the scattered hordes united, breaking through Barrport’s east gate.
Malcolm remembered that day, painfully vivid in his memory. He saw citizens and soldiers both running past their window down the streets and through the wynds. Looking ahead, Malcolm gasped in horror, for the enemy charged forward, armed with swords, axes, and pikes.
Malcolm’s father was nowhere to be found, and his mother pulled him away from the window while carrying his baby sister, Mellia.
She shoved him behind a bed in the back room and gave him Mellia.
“Crawl underneath if you have to,” his mother said, pointing below the mattress. “Don’t let them see or hear you.”
“Mother, no …” he pleaded.
She shushed him and exited the room.
Malcolm heard a slam and splintering of wood through the locked front door. He heard raspy breathing and heavy thumps on the floorboards. Barbarians ransacked the place, flipping over tables and chairs, scattering kitchenware, mugs, and glasses. The noise was deafening, and all at once, it stopped. Mellia sobbed quietly, and Malcolm carefully muffled her whimpers with his hand.
Then he heard his mother’s screams, followed by silence.
The door to the bedroom opened, and five Gothveesi entered the room, their blades bloody, with eyes on him and his sister.
Malcolm let out a choked cry, and Mellia began to shriek.
The imposing warriors stepped forward, weapons raised. They swung and were met with resistance. His father and King Greenvale blocked their attack. They’d entered the house just in time.
A clash of swords echoed throughout the bedroom. Malcolm saw his father fell two of the largest warriors, while more streamed into the hall just outside. King Greenvale struggled with his foes but held them off.
His father moved with the grace of a knight wise beyond his years, but while he held off two opponents, the third sliced his leg at the hamstring. In the split second it took for his father to drop to his knee, the other barbarians thrust the killing blows.
A Gothveesi with an axe, a giant of a man, moved swiftly toward Malcolm and Mellia. Malcolm closed his eyes and screamed in unison with his sister. When nothing happened, he opened them. King Greenvale had cut down the remaining attackers, his sword dripping. His bodyguard had also come to his aid and taken care of remaining raiders.
The king knelt beside Malcolm’s father, closing the dead man’s eyes. He grunted in anger.
One of the king’s guards said, “Sire, we must go. There’s too many.”
The king stood and nodded somberly. He walked over and took Mellia into his arms, saying “Come, Malcolm. Let’s get you and your sister someplace safe.”
They had fled to the western half of the city. Within a few weeks, assistance from Ballardia and Alorens arrived, and the hordes were soundly defeated by allied forces. The barbarians limped back to the Deserted Plains beyond the Needle-Tip Mountains.
From that early memory, Malcolm knew he owed the Backland king his life. Though his sister was now gone, what life she did have was thanks to the man who wore the crown. Malcolm always wanted to imitate his father and the king who saved him and took his father’s place. Every day he strove to be like them. He pushed himself to keep away the darkness, to do what mugs of ale could not—keep the grief at bay.
Emerging from his thoughts, Malcolm noticed Artemis. His friend, and fellow guardsman was across the room speaking in whispers with Ser Lambert, who looked in his direction and nodded. At times, it was hard to keep track of his comrade, for his black skin blended perfectly with the dark shadows in the alcoves of the castle chambers. Artemis quietly circled the perimeter of the room passing guards Jonas and Brant and approached him.
“Ser Malcolm,” Artemis said, his face a bit too small for his helm, “I’m to replace you this afternoon. Mage-Council Orbist requests your presence in his chambers.”
Malcolm raised an eyebrow. “Mage-Council Orbist … What for?”
Artemis shrugged, his armor clanking. “Not sure, sir. He fetched a servant after me and then sent me to find you.”
Malcolm let out a sigh. “Very well.”
The sky was a painting so clear you could almost make out the Southwoods. As Malcolm walked past the turrets and archways along the ramparts of the Gray Keep over to the Mage-Council’s chambers, he beheld an immense vantage point. This towering castle offered a full circle view of Em Regis and the Backland Kingdom.
Smoke arose in tendrils from smithies, bakeries, inns, and taverns. The city’s numerous rivers flowed with small ships, medium ships, and large masted packets. Beyond the clutter of commerce were villages and farmlands, rolling green fields, and patches of woods. Malcolm took a long breath, the air crisp and fresh. It was a good week for the king’s tournament.
Turning at the east wing of the keep, he could see the way leading to Ballardia. His brow furrowed at the memory of his past campaigns when he rode into battle at the king’s side. The images of men dying and him wondering if he’d ever get to see his lover Bethya and his sister Mellia again. He’d never felt such relief when Em Regis came into view on the march home, only to have relief shatter into sadness.
After passing a cluster of servants murmuring about their feast duties, Malcolm came to Mage-Council Orbist’s door. Before he could knock, the old man opened it.
“Ah, here you are,” the man with white hair and stubble said. “Please, come in, come in.”
“How fairs the Mage-Council?” Malcolm asked, not knowing what to say while stepping into a museum of oddities. Paraphernalia of magic littered the room and side rooms. Spellbooks of all shapes and sizes sat on shelves and tables. There were tomes thick as a man’s torso, some as thin as a chapbook, others odd-shaped—triangular, oval, and pentagonal. Vials, tubes, and beakers of multicolored liquids sat atop a rosewood workbench. Purples and blues, pinks and violets sparkled in their glass containment via sunlight filtering through the windows. On one wall, engraved into the castle stone were incomprehensible symbols.
“Busy for a man my age,” Orbist replied. “Though it could be worse. My body and mind are sound for the meantime. Nevertheless, you have no clue what the advance of years will bring.” The mage poured an orange liquid from a long tube into a small bottle. “Give me one moment while I finish this syrup for the king’s granddaughters. Poor things are prone to migraines. There.”
Malcolm spotted a robust oak table in the corner with various trinkets. What looked to be scraps of rusted armor and old diadems lay amidst pieces of torn clothing, tarnished jewelry, and an occasional dagger and silver coin.
“Ah, you’ve spotted my channeling corner,” Orbist said as he set the bottle aside and seated himself opposite Malcolm at the table.
“It looks to be a random group of objects.”
“Not random, no,” Orbist leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over his drab mage’s robe. “Those are all pieces of belongings of former kings and lords. With the right spells and incantations, I can touch the pieces and see the pasts of these bygone people, gaining insight and wisdom from their lives.�
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Malcolm remained quiet, blinking. He never understood the activities of mages, only that they were eccentric, befuddling, and arcane. He respected Orbist for the wisdom and medicines the man provided for the royal family, but he didn’t exactly have the utmost confidence in the man’s magician skills.
“But that’s neither here nor there,” Orbist continued. “You’re probably wondering why I summoned you.”
“Indeed.”
“As you know I work with the various temples of the Dragonmother throughout the city. I’ve received a letter from a priestess regarding one of her wards, a young girl who has visions—visions that come true. Now I don’t know what you’ve heard about Seers—”
“The majority of them are charlatans.”
“Precisely. But I trust this priestess.”
Malcolm removed his helm and set it on the table. “How does this concern me?” he said, scratching his goatee.
“The girl claims an attempt on the life of Lord Staverly of Prestonpan Fells and Isles will be made during this week’s tournament. I’ve talked with the king this morning and requested you to keep a lookout for the assassin.”
“What if there is no assassin? What if this girl—this priestess—is deluded?” Malcolm tried to steady the irritation in his voice.
“Like I said,” Orbist leaned forward, “I trust this priestess. Surely, you know what trust is. If I’m wrong and nothing happens, no harm done. If I’m right and the girl’s vision is correct, we not only save a life but know someone who has potential to aid the kingdom in immeasurable ways.”
Malcolm shook his head. “I don’t like it. My duty is to guard the king, not listen to the daydreams of a teenager.”
“Yes,” Orbist spread his arms, “Your duty is to the king. I’ve spoken with the king. I have the authority to issue this order. You serve the king, and now you serve me.”
