Firefly Island, an Epic Fantasy

by Daniel Arenson

  Home alone, Joren paced the floor.

  An hour later, an officer of the City Guard came to the house. A gruff-looking man, he wore chain mail beneath Stonemark’s royal gray uniform, the chest emblazoned with the white firefly of Sinther.

  “Is this Sem’s house?” the man asked.

  Joren nodded, dread curdling his belly.

  “Are you home alone?”

  Joren nodded again.

  “Where’s your mother?”

  “She’s dead,” Joren said. She had died years ago.

  The officer put a hand on Joren’s shoulder. “Sorry there, boy, but I’m afraid your father’s just joined her.”

  “Is he dead?”

  The officer nodded. “Got into a brawl. Died a quick death—the other man’s knife in his heart. Didn’t feel a thing.”

  Joren stood silently, not knowing how to feel. His father—dead. He felt nothing.

  “Do you have any kin, someone to go to?” the officer asked.

  Joren shook his head.

  The officer shifted his weight. “Well, look, kid. The temples take in orphans. The clerics will care for you.”

  Joren was indignant. “I don’t want to become a cleric!”

  The officer shrugged. “It’s not a bad life, clerichood.”

  Joren shook his head violently. “They aren’t allowed any women.”

  The officer laughed and jabbed a finger against Joren’s chest. “Got me there, you did.” He grew serious. “But that’s where you’re going. Grayrock has enough street urchins. A temple it is for you, Joren Semson.”

  Joren had heard tales of temple orphanages. It was like living in prison. They whispered that the clerics beat the children.

  “Now come on, lad,” the officer said, reaching out to grab him. “Off we go.”

  Joren dashed away and scrambled into the loft. He heard the officer following, clumsy in his armor. Joren grabbed Stuffings, shoved the doll into his shirt, and jumped out the window. He landed in a puddle outside, scraping his knees. He scurried up and ran down the alley, rain matting his hair. The officer followed behind. Joren clenched his fists and ran harder. I won’t become a cleric, he thought. I won’t!

  Skirting the corner, Joren emerged into crowded Limestone Lane. He dashed into the throng and hid between the people’s legs. Peeking around one man’s robes, he saw the officer scan the crowd, sigh, then turn back into the alley.

  Joren let out a thankful breath. He was saved.

  He didn’t need any temple orphanage, he told himself. He’d live alone, finally free of his oppressing father. He’d be able to do whatever he wanted. It was actually a good thing, Sem dying. He was a strong and clever boy. He’d survive, get a job somewhere. Yes, it was a very good thing.

  Joren allowed himself a tentative smile.

  * * * * *

  A moon later, he was begging on the streets.

  He had found no job, and had found he was a poor thief. He ate rats and pigeons when he could catch them; when he could not he went hungry. His flesh was slowly melting, leaving him dizzy and weak and thin, like a stick figure etched in dirt. He was on the brink of starvation, he knew. Perhaps he was starving already.

  He had exchanged his boots and hat for bread, and so he was always cold. It rained every day, the icy drops soaking him to the marrow. Joren knew he wouldn’t survive winter. He regretted refusing the orphanage, but doubted he’d be offered it again. He was just another ragamuffin now, like the hundreds that infested Grayrock, grand city of stone, capital of Stonemark, Jewel of the Island.

  He missed Aeoly more than ever. He dreamed of her every night, as he lay curled up in some dark alley, and would awake shivering and crying like a baby. The loneliness was unbearable. It became a tangible thing, a dim nausea in his stomach. But still Joren spurned the other beggars. Their dirty, emaciated faces frightened him. Their snaggletoothed grins seemed to mock him: You’re one of us now, boy, just like us.... And Joren believed them, and saw his face reflected in their own.

  If it hadn’t been for the parade, one early winter morning, Joren was sure he’d have died that year.

  He was lying slumped in Chalk Corner, palm outstretched, when he heard the trumpets and drums. He rose to his bare feet, smoothed his rags, and crept into wide Slate Street. A crowd was amassed there. The throng blocked his view like a wall. Joren hopped up and down, trying to see.

  “What is it?” he asked one woman.

  “A parade,” the woman replied. “Prince Lale has come of age today.”

  Joren had never seen his prince before. Who was the man, he wondered, who ruled this ragged hive of squalor? Would he wear silver and gold while his subjects ran barefoot through filth? Joren decided that today he would see. He burrowed through the crowd, crawling between people’s legs. Finally he reached the front edge of the crowd, where he stood up and watched.

  The royal band was marching by, playing huge black drums and silver trumpets. Dancing women followed them, flapping banners of gray and white silk. Behind the women, frolicked jesters with bells in their hats, juggling iron balls and making funny faces at the children. Next marched helmeted knights, gray surcoats hanging over their armor. Joren gazed in wonder at this grand cavalcade, both awestruck and sickened by such wealth and fanfare.

  Behind the knights, girls were flowering the street with white stock petals. The crowd bowed in a great wave. Everyone fell silent. A carriage came trundling down the street, over the petals, but its curtains were drawn. Marching before the carriage, surrounded by guards, four burly men carried a palanquin over their shoulders. Atop the palanquin, waving to the crowd, sat Prince Lale.

  For a moment Joren could not breathe.

  The prince was beautiful. His teeth sparkled like pearls, and his silver hair was silky as summer clouds. He wore unadorned gray, and only a plain, silver coronet proclaimed his position. His regality shone not from his costume, but from the depth of his gray eyes, the strength of his jaw, the whiteness of his unblemished skin. So this is my prince, Joren thought. This is beauty I can follow. The prince smiled and waved at him, and Joren’s heart overflowed with admiration and love.

  Suddenly, Joren’s eye caught a glint of metal coming from a house on the opposite side of the street. He glanced up, and his heart missed a beat. In the house’s window, a man was aiming a crossbow at Prince Lale.

  Joren gave a wordless cry. Before he could think, he was lunging forward. He slid under a guard’s legs, bounded up, and pounded into Lale’s throne.

  The throne tipped precariously. A quarrel whizzed and rebounded off the prince’s coronet. The throne, with the prince on it, crashed down.

  The guards were immediately atop their prince, shielding him with their bodies. Other guards dashed into the assassin’s house. The flower girls were screaming. The crowd rustled. Lale was pulled into his carriage. Joren tried to slink away, but a guard grabbed his shoulders.

  “You’re coming with us, runt,” the soldier growled. “You don’t attack the prince of Stonemark and get away with it.”

  Joren stared with indignation. Attack the prince of Stonemark?

  “Stop that, Gawm!” came a clear voice from the carriage. “That boy saved my life. Bring him here. I want to talk to him.”

  Joren’s heart took to flight. With a grunt, the guard lifted him, tossed him into the carriage, and slammed the door shut.

  Joren sketched a deep bow.

  A beautiful woman sat on Prince Lale’s lap, showering him with kisses. She had curly auburn hair and round green eyes. She was not Stonish, obviously, but Joren couldn’t pinpoint her race. Probably a crossbreed, with some Forestfellow in her.

  “Are you hurt, my prince?” the woman pouted between kisses.

  “Thanks to this young fellow, I am well, Ness,” the prince replied. He turned his gray eyes on Joren. “Rise, my friend. What is your name?”

  “Joren, Your Highness,” he said, straightening.

  “You saved my life, Joren. Tell me your fathe
r’s name and I'll make him a rich man.”

  “I’m an orphan, Your Highness.”

  Ness’s eyes softened. “And you have no home? Such a poor thing....” She looked at Lale. “Isn’t he a poor thing? Look how thin he is. We must help him.”

  Lale was solemn. “Is that true, boy? You live on the streets?”

  Joren nodded, ashamed.

  “This cannot be, no....” Lale tapped his cheek thoughtfully, then seemed to have an idea. “I am in need of a groom,” he said. “You seem a dashing fellow, quick of body and mind. I like that. You are obviously loyal; you risked your life saving mine. What say you take the job?”

  Ness beamed. “Hooray!” she cried and kissed Lale’s cheek. “My noble prince.”

  Joren, however, only lowered his head. “Your Highness, you honor me, but I am only a commoner, unworthy of serving you.”

  “Nonsense,” said the prince. “I say who is common and who is not. And you, my friend, are anything but common. My bravest knight wouldn’t dare topple my chair like that.”

  Ness and Lale laughed, and Joren couldn’t help but smile.

  “Be my servant,” the prince said.

  Joren bowed. “I am honored, Your Highness, and swear to serve you as best I can.”

  “Good lad,” said the prince. “Here, come sit beside me.”

  Joren’s head clouded with joy. It was like a dream. He would serve his prince with all his heart, he vowed, no matter what. His life had purpose again. Once more, he had someone to love.

  * * * * *

  Lale ended the parade early. The people shouldn’t expect parades, he reasoned, when they harbor assassins. The audacity rankled. With brisk commands, he dispersed the performers and ordered his carriage to Ness’s home.

  The boy came with them, his face suffused with joyous awe. It made Lale smile. He liked the kid. He had spunk—unlike those boring, docile servants normally inhabiting the Citadel. The old fortress was such a dreary place, it could use a spirited lad to liven things up. Scrub him up, dress him nicely, and the boy would be fine.

  The carriage stopped on Onyx Avenue, outside Ness’s house. Lale squeezed her thigh and kissed her lips.

  “Good-bye, my love,” he said.

  “You will tell him today?” she whispered.

  “We can no longer keep it secret. You are my love. I wish to marry you. I must tell him.”

  Ness nodded, her eyes round and afraid. She looked so helpless and innocent, it stirred Lale’s blood. Spirit, he loved her when she was frightened.

  “Go,” he said and gently shoved her off the carriage. She alighted, gave him one last look, then turned around and ran into the house. Such a pretty sight. Lale licked his lips.

  He turned to face Joren.

  “You,” he said, “will accompany me to the Citadel, on what will be either the greatest or worst day of my life.”

  The boy nodded, his eyes still sparkling. Lale allowed himself a smile. The boy worshiped him. He barked an order, and the coach whipped the horses into a trot. The carriage trundled over the stone roads, heading toward the Citadel.

  Lale watched it approach from his window. The Citadel. Stonemark’s ruling seat. The most fearsome fortress on the Island. Its spires and turrets pierced the sky. Its granite walls brooded like the gates of afterlife. Gargoyles perched atop its crenellations, twisted sentries with eyes of black jet. Created by ancient Stonish magic, the edifice was now home to a Stonish Firechild: Lale’s father, the king of Stonemark. Sinther, the man of stone.

  The carriage passed beneath thick outer walls and entered a vast courtyard. So huge was this courtyard, armies could muster on its ground. The fortress proper loomed above it, like a tombstone for a god. The carriage crossed the courtyard and stopped before a round, stone stage lying like a porch under the fortress doors. Lale and Joren alighted, climbed onto the stage, and approached the huge doors.

  Lale motioned the bowing guards to rise. They pulled the doors open.

  “We’ll go see the king now,” Lale told Joren.

  They stepped through the doorway into a large, shadowy hall. It was the last large room they would see. The next doorway led them into a maze of coffin-like cells and narrow corridors. The place was twined, windowless, and bleak as a morgue. The torches were far-spaced. The air was cold and musty. Lale scorned extravagance, but this place chilled him to the bone. He walked quickly, tapping his thigh. They climbed down endless, curving stairways, plunging into a subterraneous kingdom, down and down into the belly of the earth. What a cozy home, Lale thought with a wry smile. I wonder what my boy thinks of it. He’s probably scared witless. Spirit, this place terrified me at his age.

  Finally, after what seemed like miles, they stopped before a simple door.

  “There is a secret behind this door,” Lale told Joren, “a secret no one but my father and I know.”

  The boy nodded. He was shivering. It was probably from the cold.

  “No one is allowed into this room,” Lale continued in a soft voice. “No one. The penalty is death.”

  Sweat rolled down the boy’s forehead.

  “You saved my life,” Lale said. “And you will be my most personal servant. Therefore I will trust you with this secret. But once you behold it, you are forever bound to my service.”

  “I’m not afraid, Your Highness,” Joren said. His voice cracked only slightly.

  “Then you wish to proceed?”

  Joren nodded. “I swore to serve you completely, Your Highness, and that is what I’ll do.”

  Lale smiled. The boy’s bravery was soothing. Lale wished he himself were as brave; his impending task was unenviable. With a sigh, he pulled the door open, and they walked in.

  The room inside was empty. The stone walls were bare and dank. In the wall across from them, gaped a large hole—the opening of a tunnel. A second hole lay in the center of the floor. This bottom hole was the opening of a stairwell, though its steps were cloaked with darkness.

  Lale pointed at the tunnel before them.

  “This tunnel is the secret in the room,” he said. “It leads outside the Citadel, into an alley in the city. My father, though invulnerable to all but one person, built it as an emergency egress. No one knows of it but he, I, and now you. You must swear never to tell of it to anyone.”

  “I swear, Your Highness!” Joren said.

  “Then come, we’ll go see Sinther.”

  Lale realized his heart was racing. His palms were sweaty. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. I am twenty-one today, he told himself. A grown man. Go down there and do what you must, like a man.

  With tightened lips, he led Joren into the hole in the floor. The narrow, corkscrew stairwell was dark and slippery. It had been carved from the solid flint, and its walls were rough and dank. Torchlight flickered against the stone.

  Their descent ended abruptly at a stone door. Lale steeled himself and knocked.

  “Enter,” boomed the king.

  Lale shivered. No matter how many times he heard his father speak, it always chilled him. It sounded like an echo, but without a voice. If stone could speak, Lale thought, that would be its rumble.

  Lale opened the door, and he and his boy stepped in and bowed.

  The chamber was like a cave, roughly hewn, tar black but for the light of a single torch. The air was cold and wet. Lale saw the king walking towards them—an animated statue of stone. From the corner of his eye, Lale saw Joren shivering.

  “You brought a boy,” Sinther rumbled with his terrible echo.

  Lale straightened. He gently touched Joren’s back, signaling him to straighten as well.

  “He’s my groom, Your Majesty,” Lale said. “I thought he should know the room.”

  “You did not consult me on this.”

  “I am sorry, Your Majesty. I did not wish to trouble you.”

  The king spat a pebble. It clanked against the floor. “No one may know of the room. Kill the boy.”

  Lale heard the faint trickle o
f Joren wetting himself.

  “Father, please,” Lale said. “I beg of you. The boy saved my life.”

  “Saved your life?”

  “There was an assassin on Slate Street.”

  Sinther grunted. “I’ll have the street torn down. Fine, you may keep the boy. Consider him my birthday gift.”

  Lale breathed out with relief, only to let a deeper fear seep in.

  “Your Majesty,” he said, aware that his voice was quivering, “there is something I must tell you.”

  “Speak then.”

  “I have chosen a bride.”

  Sinther bunched his eyebrows. “Who? Duke Gorze’s daughter?”

  “No, Your Majesty.”

  “Who, then?”

  Lale took a shaky breath. “She is Greenhill’s daughter.”

  Sinther was silent for a long moment. The only sound was the crackling torch. Finally the king spoke. “Greenhill the exiled Healer?”

  “Father, I love her,” Lale blurted out, and then cringed, expecting his father to bawl, even beat him for loving a half-breed.

  Instead, Sinther gently laid a stone hand on Lale’s shoulder. His touch was cold and hard.

  “I understand, son,” he said.

  “You do?” Lale asked tentatively.

  Sinther nodded. “You cannot choose who you fall in love with. But you see, my son... sometimes she can choose you.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I know you don’t, son. You are young and innocent. All your life I have shielded you from the cruel, outside world. I will explain. You see, these half-breeds... they are not like us. They are cunning, only seeking to destroy. This girl you love, she has wooed you for your power. She is using your naivety to reach the throne, to be queen, to spawn impure heirs for Stonemark.”

  Lale shook his head. “Father, no.... She loves me.”

  “It seems so, son, I know.” Sinther’s voice was so gentle, it brought a lump to Lale’s throat. “But you are a prince. People fear you, respect you, admire you—but they do not love you. No one loves you, my son. No one but I. This mongrel girl loves only your power. She wants to steal it from you, to taint your royal blood.”

  Nobody loved him, Lale thought. Nobody but his father. It had to be true; his father would not lie. Lale’s fear slowly ebbed away. It felt good to believe, to please his father, not to have him yell.