Trysmoon Book 1: Ascension (The Trysmoon Saga)

by Brian Fuller

  “Did I not tell you, Chalaine?” Fenna whispered as the men strove with each other. “There is no one like him.”

  The Chalaine could only agree. What the Chalaine had thought was exaggeration from an enamored girl proved instead to be the truth. Gen fought masterfully, facing down an experienced killer in a way that could only be described as violently beautiful.

  They strove intensely for several minutes, neither tiring nor backing away. As time wore on, the Chalaine could tell that each was starting to take chances in hopes of catching the other off guard for the split second it would take to kill. The pace slackened as strategy—rather than pure physical might or speed—came into play. And it was here, the Chalaine surmised, that Cormith had the advantage, for Gen was young and surely less experienced. Still, the youth held his own until Cormith managed to slice him across his upper chest. Fenna’s face fell, and the Chalaine trembled. Her mother’s grip tightened painfully.

  Cormith offered no gloating remark, and Gen showed no sign of discomfort, though the Chalaine knew a wound so severe had to weaken him. The Blessed One half-rose up from his seat, a smile coming to his lips, while Jaron bowed his head momentarily, perhaps in prayer. Gen appeared to tire, his parries coming slower, Cormith’s blade inching ever closer. Blood ran down Gen’s chest as Cormith drove him backward. The Blessed One stood, sensing victory.

  But as Cormith came down with a heavy overhand blow, Gen’s speed suddenly returned as he threw aside his feigned exhaustion and pain. Cormith tried to hold his stroke up as Gen dodged away, but before he could rein in his errant swing, Gen hammered him in the side of the head with his sword hilt, cracking the left side of his skull. Cormith crumpled to the ground, landing on all fours and dropping his sword. Gen waited as the dazed, injured man scooted about, wheezing and feeling around for his sword. As soon as Cormith laid his hand on the blade, Gen beheaded him. The Blessed One yelled in rage, slamming his fists down upon the table.

  Gen turned, bleeding but calm. Extending his sword toward the Chalaine, he bowed. After wiping his blade clean with Cormith’s discarded shirt, he resheathed his weapon and returned to stand at attention with the other apprentices as if nothing had happened.

  Regent Ogbith stepped onto the dais with a face that barely checked the glee that threatened to flood from it. “Let it be published abroad that Gen has won the challenge. According to Aughmerian custom, the Chalaine is now in Gen’s possession and his right to her cannot be challenged for at least one year from this day. Is that correct, Highness?” Chertanne was too incensed to reply. “I shall take it then that that is correct. The matter is concluded.”

  No one dared applaud. The Dark Guard in charge of Gen’s training gaped at him with a mixture of admiration and wonder, as did his fellow apprentices. The Chalaine wept silently, her mother and Fenna sharing her joy. Jaron smiled grandly, while Dason shook his head in amazement. Moving away from her companions, the Chalaine walked across the dais to stand in front of her defender, collecting the shirt and coat he had cast aside before the fight. Now she wished that her veil could be torn away so that he could see how she felt, for no words could describe it. She felt reborn.

  “You shall not heal him!” the Blessed One thundered at her. “Give Cormith that much respect! I forbid you to heal him.”

  Ignoring the order, the Chalaine extended her hand and laid it upon the wound. His blood wet her fingers and stained the cuff of her sleeve as she concentrated. After several moments, the cut healed so completely that only the blood drying upon Gen’s chest and the Chalaine’s hand and sleeve suggested that a wound had ever been there. The Chalaine tried to read Gen’s face, but as before, it was indecipherable.

  “Thank you,” she said, leaning close to give him his clothing, whispering so that none could hear but him. A slight smile in his eyes was all he answered, and it was enough.

  “This is not the end of this!” the Blessed One yelled. “You will regret what you’ve done, serf. This I swear!”

  Chertanne departed rapidly, leaving a chattering throng in his wake. Arguments erupted, and the hall crescendoed instantly from silence to chaos. The Dark Guard hurried to their apprentices as Jaron, Fenna, and the First Mother joined their daughter in front of Gen.

  “We need to remove the Chalaine from the hall, your Highness,” Jaron remarked, nodding toward the unruly crowd.

  “Yes. Take the Chalaine to her apartments immediately. Accompany them, Fenna, and see to her comfort. Gen, you will come with me in a few moments. I must do what I can here before I speak with you. Be wary. You are in more danger than you know.”

  The First Mother hasted away, ordering the removal of Cormith’s body and trying to soothe the assembly.

  “Well done, Gen,” Volney said, coming near. “It is an honor to serve with you.” The other apprentices, excepting the Aughmerians, congratulated him quietly as the First Mother dismissed the assembly. Tolbrook approached Gen, face disquieted, signaling for him to follow.

  “No, Captain,” the First Mother spoke up, walking over quickly. “I need to talk to this one. Now.”

  Chapter 19 - Mirelle

  Gen’s mind raced as he followed the First Mother and her guard Cadaen through ornate halls fashioned from the same marble used in the Great Hall. Towering arches of stone, thirty feet high, rose into the darkness above him. The hall sloped downward, and they came to a heavy iron gate that opened to a spiral ramp descending deep below the ground. The ramp terminated onto a landing where two of the Dark Guard stood at attention before an ornate bridge that spanned the distance between the shard where the Great Hall was built and the small shard where the Chalaine lived in her tower. The guards eyed Gen speculatively as he passed, and Gen knew that word of his deed had already spread.

  Gen guessed the bridge measured a hundred and fifty feet long. It was made of the same blushing marble, and seeing it hooked between the two shards gave him a real sense of its fragility. If one shard were to move a few feet, the bridge would crumble and send them tumbling into the nothingness between shards.

  “There is magic on the bridge,” the First Mother explained as they traversed the span. “At the first sign of trouble, it can be destroyed with ease. An additional magic has been placed around the Chalaine’s complex to counter creatures that can fly. A most unpleasant end awaits anyone or anything that tries to fly across.”

  At the other end of the bridge, a short hallway ended in wide steps that spilled into a beautiful underground room with a fountain gurgling pleasantly at the center. The domed roof was painted with a very lifelike representation of the sky which magically emanated light. All about the circular room grew hearty green plants and vibrant flowers. Finely crafted statues of animals, men, elves, and fairies accented the walls from carved recesses. Three ornate doors, one on each extremity of the room, were guarded by two members of the Dark Guard each. They bowed to the First Mother and then regarded Gen with curiosity.

  Gen worried that slaying Cormith might have ruined his chances at becoming a Dark Guard for the Chalaine. Perhaps the First Mother, fearing for his life, would send him away. While he had waited for the First Mother to finish mollifying the nobles in the Great Hall, he had seen many murderous glares directed at him from those loyal to the Blessed One. And if any of the stories he used to tell others about nobles were true, he’d have to watch every dark corner and be careful of everything he drank.

  “Gen,” the First Mother said, stopping and turning toward him. “This is the Antechamber of the Chalaine. If you did not have the branding placed upon you, you would have died before crossing into this room. There are many secrets here, and in time you will know them all. The first secret, as you now know, is that the tower and buildings above us are not where the Chalaine lives. A decoy lives there, and the tower is an excellent perch for observation should we ever come under attack. The Chalaines, past and present, live here, underground.

  Straight ahead of you is the door to the Chambers of the Chalaine. It is there that
she has spent most of her life, as I did before her. Passing through that door requires an additional brand that you do not have. To the right is the entrance to the tomb of Chalaines, a place of honor for thirteen women bred through the years for beauty and other qualities.

  “The door to the left is where the Chalaines of the past live. Where I live. I and all the Chalaines before me have lived there after giving birth to their first daughter. Come.”

  The Dark Guard opened the door for the First Mother, and, to Gen’s surprise, he found himself in a maze.

  “There is a similar maze behind the Chalaine’s door,” the First Mother explained, “though it is larger and more complicated than this one. Their purpose is obvious to you, I’m sure. Follow closely. A misstep in the maze is deadly.”

  As they negotiated a confusing series of twists and turns, Gen spotted a variety of nasty traps scattered about—pits, spikes, and other machinations of death. Runes ran along the walls, hinting at unseen magical protections. The maze terminated in a short, well-appointed hallway with red carpets and marble walls that arched to a point. Gold ran along the edges of the arches’ ribs, a thread bursting forth to filigree the white walls with patterns of leaves and flowers. A polished oak door waited at the end, a smaller door to the right.

  “Cadaen, remain at my door while I talk with this young man. You can sleep when we are done.”

  Cadaen furrowed his eyebrows. “I am sorry, Milady. I cannot leave you alone with a man, especially an armed one.”

  The First Mother smiled, obviously expecting this. “Are you afraid I might seduce Gen, Cadaen?” she teased, grinning mischievously.

  “No!” Cadaen stammered. “But he is a trained killer and not well known! I could not bear it if you should come to harm because of my negligence.”

  “Cadaen,” the First Mother entreated affectionately, touching his arm, “be at peace. I know my business. Gen has saved the honor of this house tonight and I will speak with him alone if I wish it. There is no death for me in his eyes or upon his sword. Now come, Gen, in we go.”

  Cadaen started to object as the First Mother opened the door and ushered Gen in, but the old soldier bit back his words and turned to the vigil he had kept for many long years.

  The First Mother’s chamber was immense, and Gen took a moment to absorb it all. Only the finest appointments were deemed worthy enough for the First Mother, and the amount of wealth in gems and precious metals present in the room would have fed Tell for years. There were golden chalices, gem-encrusted chairs, gold trimming along the walls and floors creating elegant patterns, and artworks of silver embedded into the mantel of the fireplace. Brightly colored tapestries depicting the lives of the rich and poor lined the walls while thick, woven carpets lay about the marble floor under the couches, the desk, and in front of the fireplace. Several closed doors hinted at even more rooms beyond.

  Only the fire illuminated the room, casting wild shadows and throwing off an orange light that was bent and reflected by the jewels and metals. Gen thought the First Mother would light candles, but instead she motioned him over to the rug in front of the fire and indicated he should sit upon it. Gen unbuckled his hilt and placed his sword upon the mantel. He sat cross-legged on the rug, which proved to be quite soft under his hand.

  The First Mother entered another room for a few minutes, and when she returned she was wearing a loose-fitting gown. While Gen watched, she took several pins out of her blonde hair, letting it fall loosely about her shoulders. In the light of the Great Hall, Gen had thought that the First Mother must have been a woman of surpassing beauty in her youth. In the firelight, he knew it. Desire rose within him, for the First Mother was not old and he speculated that many men, Cadaen included, held a secret passion for her. But because of his training, the feelings rising within him simply slid off into nothingness, leaving him empty and in control. He wondered at her purpose.

  “What are you thinking?” she asked as she sat down in front of him, legs crossed like his. “Is this a bit less formal than you were expecting?”

  “Yes,” Gen replied, “but I was thinking that if the Chalaine is your daughter then she must be beautiful indeed.”

  The First Mother’s face grew grave at the compliment. “Beautiful to the point of being dangerous, I fear. Many generations ago, after the prophecy came, the Church sought a beautiful man and woman that they might have a daughter of surpassing beauty so that when the time came she might bear a son without flaw to be the temple of Eldaloth on his return. For generations this has continued, each Chalaine bearing a daughter who, on her seventeenth birthday, was then coupled with the fairest man that could be found.

  “Each new Chalaine was more beautiful, more alluring, and more enchanted. To be frank, Gen, my daughter’s beauty would drive any man who saw it into a mad passion. I doubt there is a man on Ki’Hal powerful enough to look upon her naked face and resist his impulses to take her for his own.”

  “Is her beauty natural or enchanted?” Gen asked.

  “Both,” the First Mother answered, pleased with the question. “The Chalaines were never bred or trained for magical talent. From the eighth Chalaine onward, something unexpected happened and every Chalaine thereafter was irresistible to all but those of the strongest will. Some Magicians and Church scholars say that the beauty simply elevated to a divine, god-like in nature, and this was considered a sign that the advent of the Blessed One was near. I think that if my daughter were to bear a female child, that not even the cloak and veil would be enough to hide her beauty; it would radiate from her and touch all who came near.”

  “But what of you?” Gen asked. “I mean no offense, but you are a Chalaine and you walk unveiled. Does the allure fail at a certain age?”

  “Not at an age. At the birth of a Chalaine’s first child, some of the allurement is dimmed. Make no mistake, though. I wore the veil for many years after my daughter’s birth because men would start into a frenzy at the sight of me. You have probably noticed that I do not look my age, another quality bred into the Chalaines. Do you doubt that I could seduce you as the good Cadaen fears, despite our difference in age?”

  The look she gave Gen was enticing and teasing, but there was only emptiness within him. “I would not have that tested or I fear Cadaen would have my head, even if it were your fault.”

  The First Mother smiled and relaxed her gaze. “You indeed are a marvel, Gen. I can read men easily, but you are a mystery! Does that noncommittal, uninterested face of yours ever change?”

  Gen could hear Torbrand Khairn’s counsel in the back of his head: In a fight you must be faceless. Every expression is information that aids the enemy. In a face, an opponent can see fear, arrogance, diffidence, cleverness, and dissembling. And if an opponent knows how you feel, he can exploit your emotion and kill you with it.

  “Forgive me, your Grace. It is my training that makes me so.”

  “And that is more to the point of our visit, Gen. You mentioned that Cadaen would have your head when the simple truth is that there isn’t one man that walks and breathes air, save maybe Torbrand Khairn himself, that could beat you in a duel. It is obvious to me now that you did not fight to the fullest of your abilities in the Trials, and perhaps wisely so.

  “Before we came here, I spoke briefly with Regent Ogbith and Cadaen. According to them, you are unbelievably good. How you became so is no doubt one question that you will be asked a great deal, but not now. What I really want to know is why? Why did you confront the Blessed One for my daughter’s honor? You’ve placed yourself in a great deal of danger.”

  “He does not honor her, as I said in the Hall. He was wrong to attempt what he did.”

  “Men have been killed for saying less. Yes, what he was trying to do was wrong, even in Aughmere, but that still doesn’t explain why you acted. Jaron loves the Chalaine like his own daughter, and he knew it was wrong yet said and did nothing until after you raised your challenge. Dason is an honorable man. He knew it was wrong too, and inst
ead he acquiesced to the will of the Blessed One. There were aristocrats and nobles in the assembly sworn to protect the honor of this house, and some of them are now howling for your blood!

  “So, why you, Gen? Here in Rhugoth you are a foreigner, and in your own land a commoner of the lowest station. You owe my House and my honor nothing. And then there is me, Gen.” The First Mother’s voice wavered. “She is my daughter, the most beloved of my heart, and I stood there and watched her be manhandled away and did nothing. So why, Gen, did you stand when all others—when I—failed?”

  “Because I thought I had the means to do so and she is worth the attempt,” Gen said gently, discerning the First Mother’s love for her daughter. “I was raised, as you were, to believe the Blessed One was to be revered and obeyed above all. At the dawn of each day I chant my thanks to Eldaloth for the Ha’Ulrich’s coming and pledge my soul to his service. But I ask you this: what was his coming to bring? What was the Blessed One to manifest? Love, justice, honor, sacrifice, and benevolence. When I saw him debark this afternoon, I suspected he lacked every one of those qualities. Watching tonight, I knew it. Do you agree?”

  “I do,” the First Mother answered. Gen fell silent, watching her face, and the First Mother considered what he said thoughtfully. “Are you saying the Blessed One is not the Blessed One?”

  Gen shrugged. “That is not for me to say. I must trust that he is since he bears the sign.”

  “Then I am at a loss. Why defy him then? Chertanne will be your King one day, and I do not think he will forget the sting you gave him tonight. You say she is worth your efforts, but how do you know? You cannot know my daughter and have not seen her unveiled, so I do not believe you defended her out of love or passion. Though I do recall that Ethris said he sensed you had a devotion to her that was different than the others. Why?”