by R. T. Kaelin
©2012, R.T. Kaelin
All Rights Reserved.
www.rtkaelin.com
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without written permission from the author.
Print ISBN-13: 978-0615678856
Cover Design by R.T. Kaelin
Visit www.rtkaelin.com for short stories in the world of Terrene. The Terrene Chronicles are a collection of prequel short stories available for you to enjoy.
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Acknowledgements
First and foremost, I must thank my wife for putting up with me and this unexpected dream. You are a wonderful woman, wife, and mother. To my children, Nikalys and Kennedy, who helped inspire me to write in the first place: thank you and I love you.
To Mom, Donna, Diane, Caleb, Nate, Jean, Chris, Jim, Dani, Charlotte, Mike, Lee, Caroline, Jessica, Talita, Kenneth, Simon, Rose, T.L., and Uriah: thank you for your help, support, and guidance. I cannot tell you how much I appreciate it.
What People Are Saying
“R.T. teaches a master class in world-building with Progeny. Rich in characters and details, he pulls you through a breathtaking tale that surpasses good versus evil.”
~Jean Rabe, USA Today bestselling author
“R.T. Kaelin is one of those few new authors who understand both the importance of immersing the reader in the story and how to accomplish it. From the first word, he grabs you and holds you captive throughout.”
~Maxwell Alexander Drake, Author of Genesis of Oblivion Saga
“Overall, I would favorably compare his writing with Brandon Sanderson, Scott Lynch, (early) Robert Jordan and even a bit of David Eddings flavor mixed in.”
~LuxuryReading.com
“After an exciting adventure getting to know the characters and backgrounds of our promising heroes in Progeny, R.T. Kaelin does a phenomenal job developing these young heroes into the warriors they must become in Prophecy, the second installation of the White Lions series. This is a refreshingly beautiful coming-of-age story of courage, hope, and young love; something the fantasy genre has lacked in recent years.”
~T.L. Gray, Author of The Arcainian series
“R.T. Kaelin has done it again. Beautifully rich characters combine with an entrancing plot in a compelling dance certain to allure current and new fans of the White Lion series.”
~Living Peacefully with Children
Prophecy
Volume 2 in The Children of the White Lions
The roar of the Lions will drive back the spawn,
And the lines of men, strong once again, will be redrawn.
Yet that which drives man’s soul will fray at the seams,
While the strength of the Lions will fade as do last night’s dreams.
Torn apart by deceit and distrust,
One will perish and One will be lost.
One will leave, while Another will stay.
And Two shall find each Other one day.
Against his will, one must fight,
While it falls upon the Half-man to unite.
Chaos will rise again, unraveling what has been made,
With Strife, Pain, and Deception in tow, lending aid.
Hidden, then found,
Willingly come around,
The Progeny must rise to lead the fight,
Along with new and old, seek to make it right.
– As recorded by High Priest en’Sul, First of Indrida
3rd day of the Turn of Lamoth, 4639
The Oaken Duchies
Terrene
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1: Ebel
Chapter 2: Mongrel
Chapter 3: Advisor
Chapter 4: Chamber
Chapter 5: Dreams
Chapter 6: Performance
Chapter 7: Heart
Chapter 8: Aid
Chapter 9: Kur-surus
Chapter 10: Cabal
Chapter 11: Prisoner
Chapter 12: Tombles
Chapter 13: Pouch
Chapter 14: Past
Chapter 15: Woodeaters
Chapter 16: Empire
Chapter 17: Fallen
Chapter 18: Hunt
Chapter 19: Return
Chapter 20: Yearning
Chapter 21: Windows
Chapter 22: Plan
Chapter 23: Goodbye
Chapter 24: Slavers
Chapter 25: Yearday
Chapter 26: Impulse
Chapter 27: Thoughts
Chapter 28: Decision
Chapter 29: Father
Chapter 30: Vision
Chapter 31: Prey
Chapter 32: Soul
Chapter 33: Voyage
Chapter 34: Storm
Chapter 35: Hurt
Chapter 36: Conspirator
Chapter 37: Choice
Chapter 38: Primal
Chapter 39: Awaken
Chapter 40: Understanding
Chapter 41: City
Chapter 42: Nobles
Chapter 43: Oracle
Chapter 44: Reunion
Chapter 45: Refugees
Chapter 46: Horde
Chapter 47: Chest
Chapter 48: Tirnu
Chapter 49: Cloak
Chapter 50: Parting
Chapter 51: Eveningmeal
Chapter 52: Stars
Chapter 53: Mother
Chapter 54: Brothers
Chapter 55: Stone
Chapter 56: Foothold
Chapter 57: Sacrifice
Chapter 58: Prophet
Chapter 59: Loss
Chapter 60: Aftermath
Epilogue
Appendix
Prologue
5th of the Turn of Roden, 4751, 248 years before Yellow Mud's destruction
Tandyr stared at the tiny village on the far side of the wooden bridge. A weary sigh worn from the ages slipped from his lips.
Mountain peaks towered over the settlement of Nentnay, the jagged, slate gray rock a stark backdrop to the lush, green valley in which he stood. Snowmelt from the white-capped range fed the river that rushed under the bridge, tumbling over the smooth rocks and filling the air with a vibrant, almost happy, gurgling sound. Silver fish the length of his hand stubbornly attempted to swim upstream, leaping into the air before falling back to the water to be swept away by the current. Birds warbled in the evergreen branches.
The idyllic setting had no effect on Tandyr. He eyed the village, a frown on his wide lips, consumed with tired skepticism. He noted the need to have a talk with Jhaell, his new researcher at Immylla. The saeljul preceptor had insisted repeatedly that his research pointed to one of the stones being in or near this village. Tandyr had had his doubts, even after reading Jhaell’s purported proof: a scrawled inscription in the back of an old Cartusian book about farming.
“This cannot possibly be the right place.”
Nentnay could not have been more out of the way. He had trekked for three days from Tutetup—the nearest town of any note—stumbling over the rocky, winding trail that ran along the river. What he sought should never have been left to rot in such obscurity.
He took a long, deep breath of mountain air and exhaled.
“Well, I am here now.”
He stepped onto the bridge, his sandaled feet scuffing the damp boards. Built of planks cut from the spruce pines that dominated the region’s thick forest, the bridge was coated with some sort of resin that had turned the
grain a deep, crimson red. Tandyr found the color garish and out of place. This area of southern Cartu was mostly a palette of greens, stony grays, and fertile browns.
As Tandyr stepped from the bridge and onto the road that ran into Nentnay, he lifted the hem of his black robe several inches. His feet squished as he walked and the cold slime of mud slipped between his toes. He regretted not purchasing those boots from the street hawker in Tutetup.
The sun was fighting its way through the canopy of rain clouds left over from a mid-morning shower, but was losing its battle. The damp air of the valley was chillier than recent days, but most definitely welcome. Three days ago, he had been roasting in the plains of Yut.
Colossal, moss-covered boulders rose from a low-lying blanket of mist, looking like hunks of potatoes floating atop a thick stew. Carefree, happy voices drifted through the haze. Somewhere ahead of him, a chicken clucked.
The longhouses of Nentnay were built using the great, round pine trunks, stained the same crimson red as the bridge. At both ends of each structure two logs protruded high into the air, crossing one another and continuing for another ten feet, their sharp angles reminiscent of the sheer mountains to the north. Smoke curled from the tops of stone chimneys, drifting upward to become one with the foggy mist. The smell of charred wood smoke filled the air, swirling with the fresh, clean aroma of spruce sap.
As Nentnay was so near the border, the skin tones of the men and women were mixed, ranging from the dark, nutty brown common to most Yutians to the paler skin of southern Cartusians. Nearly everyone he saw had thick, brown or black hair, making his own long, whitish-blonde hair—pulled together and bound by three cords—decidedly out of place. As were his elongated arms, fingers, and facial features. He suspected he was the first saeljul any of these people had seen. The inquisitive, silent looks he received as he strode past the first buildings confirmed it for him.
Several dozen paces into the village, he halted. The happy chatter he had heard earlier on his way into Nentnay was gone. The only sounds in the village were the rush of the river and the songbirds’ chirping.
Standing before one of the longhouses on his right were three men and a boy, all dressed in stitched leather tunics and breeches.
“Excuse me. I was wondering if you might assist me with something?”
All four stared at him, mute.
After a moment, Tandyr lifted an eyebrow and raised his voice a bit. “I said, I was wondering if you—”
“Are you an ijul?” asked the boy suddenly. The question was spoken in Argot, the accent clipped and short.
The man closest to the child reached out to put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. He whispered to him, quiet enough that the sound of the river washed away his words. Tandyr’s gaze shifted between the pair. Their tan skin was of similar tone and their thick, wavy black hair was nearly identical.
Turning, he approached who he reasoned were father and son. The other men standing with them both took a few, quick, unconscious steps backwards. One bumped into the wall of the longhouse.
Tandyr offered the boy a slight smile and asked gently, “Do I look like an ijul to you?”
The boy nodded once.
“Yes.”
“Ah…” murmured Tandyr. “And have you ever seen an ijul?”
Shaking his head, the boy said, “No.”
“Then how would you know what one looks like?”
“Batta tells us stories.”
“Does he?” asked Tandyr. “And what do ijul in…Batta’s stories look like?”
“Hair that shines as bright as the sun, arms that flow like a river reed blowing in a soft breeze, and the quiet grace of a snow leopard.”
Tandyr smiled at the flowery description.
“Batta sounds like a good storyteller.”
“He is,” replied the boy. “He knows a lot of them on account he’s so—”
“Menet!” interjected the boy’s father. “That is enough.” Glaring at his son, the man muttered, “Go inside with your mothers, please.”
“But I—”
“Now, Menet!”
Tandyr lifted his gaze to the father. The man’s tone was curiously terse.
Menet scowled at his father as he mumbled, “Yes, Father.” He scampered to the entrance of the longhouse, lifted some sort of tanned animal skin hanging from the entryway, and disappeared inside the darkened interior.
Tandyr returned his attention to the three men. The two against the wall had withdrawn further and were now sweating, an unusual fact due to the slight chill in the air. Menet’s father showed a touch more steel, holding Tandyr’s gaze without flinching.
“You,” said Tandyr, nodding at the father. “What is your name?”
The man hesitated a moment before answering.
“I am called Dese.”
“Greetings, Dese,” said Tandyr. “I have been seeking some unusual…things for quite some time now. I have reason to believe one might be here.”
Dese remained motionless and quiet, the defiant glint in his eye irritating Tandyr. Eventually, the man spoke with a frown.
“We are a simple people, wanderer. Unless you consider hide, fish, or pinewood ‘unusual,’ I fear your journey has been in vain. Perhaps you should look elsewhere.”
The inquisitive cluck of a chicken pulled Tandyr’s attention to the longhouse’s corner. A single brown-feathered fowl emerged from the side of the building, strutting, its head bobbing as it walked.
Looking back to the man, Tandyr said, “I find your words to be less than hospitable, Dese.”
Dese’s face hardened.
“Hospitality is for friends and neighbors, ijul. You are neither.”
Tandyr regarded the man, studying him. He was brave. Brainless, but brave.
“Ah,” muttered Tandyr. “I see.” His gaze flicked to the pair of men standing behind Dese. “Are these your friends, Dese?”
Dese crossed his arms over his chest, the colored beads hanging from strings draping along the sleeves clicking softly against one another.
“They are my brothers.”
Tandyr studied the two men. One had dark skin and a bald pate, while the other had light skin and long, light brown hair held that fell past his shoulders.
“Truly?” said Tandyr with honest surprise. “They look nothing like you.”
“We share the same father,” replied Dese. “We are house brothers.”
Tandyr expected some sort of explanation would be forthcoming, yet Dese offered none. The Cartusian’s reticence was starting to irritate him. As he stood there, waiting, the chicken wandered between him and three villagers, pecking at the ground as it searched for a stray seed or grub.
“Which of your ‘house brothers’ do you care for more, Dese?”
The man stiffened.
“Pardon?”
“It is a simple question,” said Tandyr, an edge to his voice now. Nodding to the pair of men, he asked plainly, “Which is your favorite?”
The man’s expression shifted, his worry deepening.
“Why do you ask?”
Tandyr glared at the man.
“Answer my question, man.”
Dese’s eyebrows drew together.
“Who are you, ijul?”
Tandyr was trying to keep calm, but this mortal was not making it easy.
“Choose, Dese.” He peered between the two men against the wall. “Or I will choose for you.”
The man stared at Tandyr for a long, quiet moment. The chicken at their feet clucked softly.
Tandyr’s eyes narrowed. Lowering his voice, he said, “Surely you are wondering: choose them for what?”
Reaching for the bright white Strands of Air, Tandyr knit a quick pattern and directed the Weave around the chicken. The fowl squawked in alarm as it was suddenly held in place, prevented from continuing its leisurely search for grubs or whatever it was chickens ate.
Tandyr lifted his gaze to the three men and found the trio staring at the fowl with wide ey
es. He allowed himself a tiny smile.
He glanced around the village once, wondering if he might encounter resistance. He severely doubted any competent Air mage would languish here, but over the years, he had learned to be careful. When he did not spot even a flicker of recognition in anyone’s eyes, Tandyr looked back down and tightened the Weave.
Instantly, the chicken’s clucking morphed into sharp shrieks of pain, slicing through the misty solitude of the mountain valley. Other villagers stared in shock as the bird thrashed helplessly, screeching as Tandyr’s pulsating white Weave slowly constricted around its body. Men and women rushed from longhouses and onto the muddy road, drawn by the chicken’s cries. He took his time, hoping to draw the entire village out.
As the street filled, the brown-feathered fowl stopped squawking, no longer able to draw breath. At that point, Tandyr squeezed the Weave tight, eliciting a series of moist, crunching pops. The chicken’s yellow-beaked head lolled to one side and Tandyr released the Weave, letting the bird fall limply to the ground.
Dese, his brothers, and the citizens of Nentnay stared at the dead bird in wide-eyed silence. The boy, Menet, was peering out from behind the leather skin covering of the entryway, his eyes locked on Tandyr rather than the bird. A dark-skinned woman stood behind him, hovering protectively.
Raising his voice so everyone could hear, Tandyr said, “If you answer my questions, nothing else needs to die today.”
If he could avoid killing anyone, he would do so. Stories spread when strange ijuli marched into villages, indiscriminately killing people. Chickens, less so.
“Now, I’m looking for a stone.” Lifting his hand, he extended his long, thin thumb and said, “It is supposedly the size of one’s—” He stopped when he noticed Dese’s gaze shift, flicking to something behind him. Turning around quickly, he spotted a figure shuffling towards him, feet scuffling in the muddy road.
Tandyr’s already wide eyes grew round.
The individual that was approaching was tall and incredibly thin, more so than even a malnourished ijul. Lightweight linen robes hung from his bony frame like too-dry stringmoss drooping from a willow tree. Skin as thin as scraped parchment covered his hands and skull, stretched so tight that it seemed that any sudden movement might split it open. His head was bald, his lips so slender they were nearly absent. Vibrant blue eyes perched over a pair of dual vertical slits where most had a nose.
