by JM Guillen
Then, as the people watched, the stars themselves begin to bleed.
As I read, the Simnemion wind drifted over the city, carrying with it the smell of ocean and wild, far-away places. Outside my window, shimmering sunlight cut through the mist, and I heard the bustle of her people gearing up for their day.
I needed this. I loved nothing like a good book, cider from a great year, and a nice, quiet morning without pimps and thugs. I had to patrol later, but for now, my world contained itself within fanciful Du’anni folk tales.
And cider. I took a sip.
Yet, all good things must pass.
Petite trouble sashayed into my room, her head high and her eyes glinting with secrets. She threw a quick glance my way, as if she owned the world and everything in it.
I furiously continued to read, ignoring her with a mighty will.
Of all those who looked upon the radiant light, there was one among the people, a girl-child named Irili, who crept away from the valley, slipping through sibilant shadows toward the place where the radiant azure star came to rest. She had lived in this valley her entire life and she knew the forest better than she knew her parents faces. She was able to move through it without fear, even though she was young.
But when she came to the side of the great mountain, her eyes were opened.
There was a woman, wreathed in terrible blue fire. There was her steed, all copper and silver and proud brass, dying on the mountainside. Its songs were discordant and soft, and pieces of its body lay all about, ruined beyond hope.
Its pain was a jagged thing, blood red and sharp. Just looking upon it, Irili felt despair nest in her heart, as if its agony were her own.
The woman gazed at her, eyes singing a wordless song of fury and brilliance. On her brow were written three shining words that the girl did not know. At the touch of the woman’s gaze, Irili sank back into the shadows, and knew for the first time in her life what it truly was be afraid.
“Thom?” The thoughtless intruder purred my name. She looked at me with her dark, soulful eyes. The wind ruffled her a bit, and she stepped closer, as if she hoped I would say something.
Tainted night. I sighed, squinting at my book. I licked my finger and turned a page.
She meant nothing but trouble. I hated that I loved her so much. She never brought me anything but problems and heartache.
“No.” I did not even glance at her. “I’m quite busy.”
She glided to my desk, graceful and lithe. She knew she could get her way with me, it only took a bit of sweetness. Her dark eyes flashed mischievously.
“Thom.” She stepped closer, seemingly in a playful mood.
Sighing, I ignored her. I ignored her fiercely. I had been trying to finish this book for almost a fortnight.
However, no one knew persistence like this particular girl. She pranced into my life whenever she wished, without my leave or say.
She cocked her head at me. I almost winced when she said my name again. “Thom.”
“What?” My exasperation felt sharp. Against my will and all good judgment, I glanced down at her legs.
Definitely trouble. Trouble with a sovereign “T.”
“Fecking damn.” I closed my eyes and groaned.
She leaned in closer and gave me a light peck. Nestling against me for a moment, I smelled her particular scent. She smelled like night. Like the Reapingtide wind.
“What’s a pretty bird like you doing bringing me trouble this early?” I glanced at her legs again. “I can't help but think that every time I see you, the news is bad.”
“Bad?” Her tone didn’t scold, but came close.
“It’s true, you little Molly.” I sat up. “Every time you come sashaying in my door, you bring me nothing but late nights, heartache, and trouble. I should turn you out right now, no matter how sweet a girl you can be.”
“Sweet girl.” She nuzzled against me again.
“Fine.” I glared at Scoundrel and sighed. “You win, you cussed little rook. Give it here.”
From a few steps away, I could never tell what she might have in her leg clasp.
My chest felt like a vise; it could easily be a phial from the Legates. My peaceful morning might be at an end. A day of cider, books, and solitude could cascade into serum, visions, and dangerous roads.
I fiddled a moment then blew out a relieved breath.
“A message.” I smiled the moment I realized who had sent it.
I only had a few people on my priority list with the Runner’s Guild, but of those folks, only one sent letters than smelled like jasmine and sweetness.
Most messages were simply brought by the runners themselves, but when one came in on the leg of a troublesome raven, and it smelled like this…
Sefra.
I unscrolled the small scrap and held it up to the light.
Mister Havenkin, Judicar
I am planning on attending a Reaping revel in your borough this evening, and wondered if you could accompany me. It’s a little something sponsored by the Alchemins, and is said to have fireflowers and songs, two things I adore.
However, a proper lady should not be alone in the dangerous Warrens, particularly dressed as I shall be.
My body definitely needs guarding, I’m afraid.
I hoped you might know of an adequate bodyguard for the evening.
Please respond as soon as possible, to my home address. If you are unavailable, I shall have to find other accompaniment, and that would be a shame.
Yours,
Sefra
I knew the revel. I had wondered if she would be attending.
“You know we take rounds tonight, right?” I didn’t look at Scoundrel, but gestured mimic.
“Right.” She hopped closer, clearly hoping I would realize she happened to be woefully bereft of cheese. “Right, right.”
“So, would it be bad if we took some time off to see a pretty girl?” My fingers signed again as I re-read the message.
“Pretty girl?” Scoundrel cocked her head. “Bad Thom.”
“I know.” I sighed. “Doesn’t change anything though, does it?” A small grin capered at the edges of my mouth. “Maybe Sefra will be willing to let me slip away for a moment.”
“No.” Scoundrel picked up on the sign perfectly. “No Thom. Pretty girl.”
“Don’t I know it.” My grin grew wider.
I stepped to my rolltop writing desk, fumbling past spare rook-keys, a set of tiles, and a shaving razor (why was that in there?) until I found my fountain pen.
Dry.
I scrabbled around in the drawer, looking for my inkwell, when I found something else entirely. My fingers closed over it and my breath caught.
“Good morning.” I had all but forgotten it was there.
A small pin, given to me by Sefra herself gleamed in my palm.
I pulled it forth, feeling the coolness of it against my hands. Cunningly wrought, it had been sculpted in the shape of a raven with two glittering azure stones for eyes. I turned it over, peering at the small symbol engraved there.
My vision swam.
A sharp sigil lurked there, a glyph that lurked and bit. I couldn’t say to its shape exactly, as I found it impossible to look at for long.
“I do not believe in sorcery.” I muttered the words, the same ones I had spoken the first time I’d seen the symbol. Even then I had thought them foolish, more defiance than denial.
“That could be all kinds of things.” It was true. There were remnants of the Eld world in Teredon yet, talisman and whispers of technologies we would never understand.
I still had no idea what the glyph might actually be.
Sefra hadn’t known what she had given me at the time. She had been indebted to some dangerous folke, only doing as bid. Later, she had warned me that something might be off about the pin.
She had been right, sure as salt.
I turned it over in my hand. I did not like touching it, but I couldn’t help but muse on it. These days, unle
ss it was associated with the strangeness of the bounds themselves, anything odd could easily be labeled as sorcery.
That cry could be as dangerous as actual sorcery, in my experience.
I tossed the pin back into my writing desk and resumed my search for an inkwell.
Finding one, I smiled, already framing my reply.
I loved teasing Sefra.
“Miss Eldreborn.” I set my quill, my smile already gleeful. “I would be most pleased to find you accompaniment for this evening. As an oathed judicar, it is my primary pleasure to see to the very important social needs of Teredon’s many, many spoiled young ladies.”
I couldn’t help but laugh at imagining her wrinkled nose and feigned outrage as she read my note.
I didn’t give the pin another thought. Some mysteries could wait for another day.
After all, I had important matters to attend to.
###
Of the Dark and Desolate Sea
Judicar’s Oath Book Two
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About the Author
JM Guillen was a normal, mild-mannered Midwesterner until he achieved his lifelong dream of being a full-time writer in the summer of 2011. When one of his stories, The Herald of Autumn, was nominated for a Nebula Award, it was the final straw for his mundanity.
He immediately went mad with a miniscule, insignificant amount of power.
Soon he was declaring himself to be “exempt from the laws of men, regarding pants,” and conducting mad experiments regarding human tolerance for rum. In between attempts at taking over Strafford, Missouri, he also dabbles in weird fiction. Besides science fiction, fantasy, and horror, he is best known for implementing schemes, plots, and ploys.
Today, the self-described supervillain spends his days scribing The Paean of Sundered Dreams, a cycle of series that all blend and interweave. This is his greatest scheme yet, as discovering the myriad connections between these worlds tends to drive his readers mad.
You can visit his website at www.irrationalworlds.com.
This is a work of wonderful fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
Except when not.
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Copyright of JM Guillen. - © 2015. All rights reserved. Any redistribution or reproduction of part or all of the contents in any form is limited.
An Irrational Worlds book
Printed in the United States of America
