Nexus Moons: Book One of the Tales of Graal

by Ron Root

  Nexus Moons

  Book One of the Tales of Graal

  Copyright © 2020 by Ron Root

  All rights reserved

  Book cover artist: RLSather

  SelfPubBookCovers.com/ RLSather

  Cover design by Vickie Duchscherer

  ISBN: 978-1-09-830936-7

  This book is dedicated to my grandchildren:

  Brooklyn, Jackson, Savannah, Alyssa and Logan

  Hayden, Nate, and Taylor

  Contributors:

  Catherine Evleshin, Chrissy LaVielle, Jessica Morrell and Vivienne Boogaard

  Contents

  NEXUS MOONS

  Arrival

  Stalwart

  A Promise Kept

  Havoc

  Strategizing

  Pursuit

  The Spymaster

  Vainglorious

  Tourney

  Blunderer

  Foul Marsh

  Calamity

  Missive

  Allegations

  Gifted

  Marooned

  Devil’s Isle

  Flight

  Portsmouth

  Guardian

  Decisions

  A’ryth

  The Travelways

  Fate Learned

  Oíche na Cumhacht

  Second Nexus

  Commitment

  The Haunt

  Turpin’s Boon

  Escape

  Jacaíoi

  Bolcán

  Chaos

  Sojourn’s End

  Homeward Bound

  Passage

  The Horde

  The Sally

  Haven

  Mind Speak

  Requital

  Table of A’rythian Words and Phrases

  Treason

  Arrival

  The helmsman guided the ship past the final buoy and into port. “Boom two points abaft the beam, starboard side!” came a cry from the crow’s nest. The sails dropped and the ship slammed against the pylons. The loud grating of wood on wood spawned a flurry of dockside activity. Mooring lines were tossed to waiting dockers who looped them around bollards and the vessel was secured.

  Jarek stood watching from atop the ship’s deck, his magus robes flapping in the breeze. His plan had been to change into something more practical before debarking, but by the time he boarded, his belongings had already been stowed. The Captain had ordered the crew to treat them with extra care—to place them where rough seas wouldn’t damage them. That ‘extra care’ had them buried them so deep in the hold that the ship’s cargo would have to be offloaded before the crew could reach them.

  He took in the scene before him. Like all seaports, Portsmouth reeked of offal. He pinched closed his nose in a vain effort to thwart its stench. Why his sister had chosen this island to birth a child was beyond him. Perhaps she picked it because of its remoteness. It made sense, given that Damián was mundane. Ever was it frowned upon for a magus to marry an ungifted for fear it would diminish chances of their offspring inheriting the Gift.

  If isolation was Bronwyn’s plan, it worked. It had taken Jarek nearly two decades to discover her whereabouts, long after her abduction by Chevaliers, the One Church’s men-at-arms. Whereas the magi believed any person so gifted was free to practice the arts as he or she saw fit, it was not so with the One Church. They claimed exclusive domain over any aspect of the arts dealing with a man’s soul. For anyone but one of their Clerics to practice such arts was deemed heretical, and it was the Chevaliers’ sworn duty to enforce those laws. Had that been Bronwyn’s crime? Had practicing forbidden arts precipitated her arrest? He sighed. After all this time, the answers to such questions were of secondary concern; he was here to find his nephew.

  The gangplank fell, its loud bang shattering his reverie. A helmeted, sword-clad, bodyguard guided a pair of wealthy benefactors down to the dock. Attired in latest Suzerain fashion, the portly man was bedecked in brightly colored tunic and leggings, loose-fitting breeches, and a chaperon cap. His wife’s garish attire made her husband’s look tame.

  Porters arrived, gathered their belongings, and escorted them to a waiting carriage. They boarded and left. Jarek watched their departure with envy. Had the crewmen recovered his baggage in timely fashion, he’d be on that carriage too.

  With the gentry’s departure, the more modestly dressed common folk disembarked too. Soon all passengers were off the ship but him. “You!” he hollered at the nearest porter, “Have they gotten to my belongings yet?” The young man’s eyes darted about, hoping it wasn’t he that Jarek had hailed. Ever did sorcerer’s garb intimidate the mundane. “Come,” Jarek encouraged, motioning the lad to come join him, “I wish you no ill, I’m simply anxious to be on my way.”

  The young porter approached, his dread obvious, as if some horrific spell was about to be cast upon him. “Apologies, Magus, but me fears it’ll be some time yet afore the boys be reaching your things.”

  “So be it,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Secure them on deck once they’re finally recovered. I’m going ashore to bide my time. I shall return anon to fetch them.”

  “Yes, Magus.” Looking relieved, the young swab scurried away.

  Jarek scanned the town, hoping to spot some worthwhile means of passing time. Row upon row of merchant shoppes dotted the harborside, their open doors welcoming patrons. Cobbled alleyways parceled the town into sections. Haphazard rows of wattle-roofed crucks filled the area behind the shoppes, likely the abodes of the locals. The dawn sky glowed a soft orange above them. A sheriff’s man bedecked in intimidating armor, sword at his side, strode among them, his presence assuring peace in a place that otherwise might be lawless mayhem. Ever were port cities dangerous.

  Although Portsmouth bustled with commerce, it would get little of his coin. His plan was to head inland as soon as possible and begin his search for his nephew. He shook his head, still struggling to grasp the idea of having kin again. With his parents’ passing and his sister’s disappearance, the idea of having family seemed a treasure forever lost. To learn his sister had birthed a son on this remote island was almost unfathomable. But that’s what the document proclaimed, and only a fool questioned the veracity of a Royal Library scroll.

  He descended the gangplank and was heading toward town when he spied two oddly dressed sailors coming his way. Draped in fur with animal bones dangling from their long blonde locks, they looked fearsome. “Sirs,” he hailed as they approached, “perchance could you tell me where I might hire a coach?”

  They stopped, the larger of the two eyed Jarek’s purse. “Taka penningr?” he asked of his companion.

  But it was Jarek’s robes that had the second one’s attention. “Æva, dāræ!” he said, with a shake of his head. “Man hafa feldr síða!” The two scurried away, looking as if something of greater import had suddenly arisen.

  A voice from behind startled him. “They were about to rob you, Sir.” Jarek turned to find a portly young man with unruly brown hair sitting atop a wagon, holding its reins. “But fearing you might be a witch, they decided to seek easier prey.”

  “You understood them?”

  The lad shrugged. “Enough to grasp their meaning. They were speaking Nosarian—one of many tongues you’ll hear on these docks.”

  “And how is it you understand Nosarian?”

  “My father’s a merchant. As a boy, I travelled many lands and learned many tongues—a necessity if one wishes to successfully trade.”

  “I am in awe of your skill young man.” He glanced toward the town, “I’d be even more impressed if y
ou could direct me someplace where I might secure a carriage inland.”

  “That would be at the carriage post, sir. It’s next to the livery.”

  “Ah, I see. And where, exactly, would the livery be?”

  “How daft of me. Of course, a stranger wouldn’t know that either.” He looked toward town. “The post isn’t far. I could take you thither if you’d like.” He scooted over, making room for Jarek. “Just be aware, my comfortless wagon is hardly a proper conveyance for a Royal Magus.”

  Jarek had said nothing of his rank, yet the lad knew. How? There was more to this young man than met the eye. “Our meeting wasn’t accidental, was it?”

  “I… a… no Sir. I saw your robes as you walked down the gangplank. Knowing only Royal Magi wear black with a red sigil, I wanted to meet you.”

  “How is it you know so much about the magi?” he asked, climbing aboard.

  “I once studied to be one.”

  Jarek had forgotten the island had an Arts school. “You’re full to the top of surprises, aren’t you? May I know your name?”

  “It’s Hagley, Sir.”

  “Well met, Hagley,” he said, settling beside him. “I’m Magus Jarek Verity, and as you so astutely observed, a Sorcerer of the Court. So, where did you study, and why aren’t you wearing robes?”

  The spark left the lad’s his eyes. “At the island’s arts university. But I failed both my trials, so was refused them. Now, instead of being the university’s student, I’m its wagoner.”

  “Failed them twice, eh? Are you aware a third test can be granted if circumstance warrants it?”

  The young man shrugged. “I guess mine didn’t warrant it.”

  “Where is this university of yours?”

  “Just outside of Stalwart. I’ll return there once I finish my errands,” he said, spurring the horses forward.

  Soon they were among the shoppes. The rankness of fresh blood assaulted Jarek’s senses as they passed a butcher’s shoppe, only to be replaced by the even more offensive fetor of a fishmonger’s stall. Next came the livery stable, and finally, the carriage post. Hagley let him out and went on about his business.

  Jarek headed inside. A grizzled-looking fellow stood behind the counter poring over a stack of journals. He glanced up, eyeing Jarek. “Yes?”

  “How soon is the next carriage to Stalwart?”

  “It just left. It’ll return by nightfall, but won’t leave again until the morrow,” he said, returning his attention to his journals.

  “Hells! Surely there’s more than one carriage?”

  The clerk glanced up from his journal, looking indignant. “You’re no longer on the mainland, Sir. We islanders number few. Two carriages a day would not be profitable.”

  “Apologies for my curtness, it’s just that I’m most anxious to reach Stalwart. Is there another means of conveyance you can suggest?”

  His conciliatory tone seemed to mollify the man. “You might try the livery. Although they could provide a horse, bear in mind that Stalwart is a half-day’s ride.” He smirked. “Waiting for tomorrow’s carriage would be far more comfortable, say nothing of more penny-worthy.”

  Tomorrow wouldn’t do. “Gramercy,” he said leaving, departing for the stable next door.

  He approached the nearest groom. His hair was every bit as gray as the carriage post clerk’s. “Good sir, how much to rent a horse to Stalwart? And perhaps a pack horse to carry my belongings.”

  He spit out a wad of chew, exposing blackened teeth. “That depends on when you be bringin’ ‘em back.”

  “I was thinking more in terms of leaving them in Stalwart.”

  “Ha!” the man bellowed. “Then you be talkin’ buyin,’ not rentin’. A silver each ought to cover it.”

  “A silver each!” Although cost wasn’t really an issue for Jarek, paying that much to spend half a day with his arse doing battle with that of a horse seemed outlandish. Ever was he a poor horseman. “I fear that won’t do.”

  Leaving, he wandered the town, pondering his plight, trying to come up with another option. The town’s shoppes were colorful if nothing else, say nothing of noisy and aromatic, from the jarring clang and blistering heat of the blacksmiths and farriers, to the far softer tamping of tannery by cobblers fashioning their leather. Since none offered a means of getting to Stalwart, he resigned himself to searching for an inn.

  While passing a tinker’s wagon he was accosted by its driver. “Let me read your palm, kind sir,” she said, struggling down out of its seat. One of her feet was mangled. Using a sawed-off tree limb for support, she limped toward him. “Just one chink learns your future,” she said, flashing a toothless grin. “A bargain for such a boon.”

  Jarek doubted she was a true seer; those who could soothe were extremely rare. But he couldn’t find it in his heart to refuse one burdened by such ill fortune. “Of course,” he said, fishing out the requested chink.

  Taking it, she led him into her wagon. Sitting facing him, she took hold of his hand and began her reading. Her augury turned out to be the very type of babble he expected—until she suddenly sat up, frowning. “Most unusual,” she said, running a fingernail along a Y-shaped crease in his palm. “See this line?” she said, looking up. “It portends something most unusual.”

  Her remark roused his curiosity. “How so?”

  Clasping his hand in hers, she looked deep into his eyes. “In days soon to come, you are fated to experience both great joy and extreme dismay.”

  Her pained expression was unsettling, making him wonder at her portent. Was she a true seer after all? “Such a profound augury is worthy of more,” he said, handing her a second chink.

  Leaving her wagon, he walked away, wondering at her prophecy. Did it pertain to his nephew? If so, he’d best find him soon. As he passed the next alleyway, movement caught his eye. He looked. Two shoppes down he spied Hagley, loading goods into his wagon. “Praise the Gods,” he whispered, and headed down the alley.

  Hagley looked up as Jarek approached. “Magus Verity, good to see you again. Did you book your carriage?”

  “No, I’ve chosen another option.”

  Hagley’s brow furrowed. “What other option is there?”

  “I’m riding with you.”

  Stalwart

  After retrieving Jarek’s belongings, the two were soon Stalwart bound. “Since you’ve so kindly offered a ride,” Jarek said, “I can do no less for you. Introduce me to your headmaster and I’ll do my best to get you that third opportunity to pass your trials.”

  Hagley’s eyes lit up. “You’d do that for me?”

  Choking back a smile, Jarek glared. “Are you questioning a Court Sorcerer’s word?”

  “No sir! I’m sorry, Sir.”

  Jarek broke out laughing. “It was a jape, Hagley. Don’t you recognize a jest when you hear it? Now tell me about this university of yours, and how it is you failed your trials.”

  Hagley recounted both his failures. Jarek was surprised at the level of detail he provided. The lad had a keen mind, making his inability to pass his trials all the more puzzling.

  After exhausting the topic of Hagley’s woes, their conversation ebbed. Jarek sat contemplating his upcoming task. He thought back to the day he’d first heard of the existence of his nephew. He’d been researching in the library on a wholly different matter when the Archivist came to him, telling of a parchment he’d found that alluded to a sorcerer named Verity, wondering if it might be a kinsman. Since Jarek and Bronwyn were the family’s only practitioners, it had to pertain to her.

  The document turned out to be a recounting of Bronwyn’s husband’s posthumous trial. It read: Damián Smithy, Stalwart village smith, died hindering the arrest of his heretic wife, Bronwyn Smithy, born Verity. Care of said persons’ male infant was given over to local clergy.

  Although the scroll shed little light as to Bronwyn’s fate, it proclaimed the all-important news that Jarek had living kin. How man
y winters had passed since he could last make that boast? He clenched his jaw, realizing the same miscreants who abducted his sister and killed poor Damián, were now raising his nephew. Had they already poisoned his mind with their perverse doctrine? Could the lad be extricated from their clutches, or had they already created a disciple of his own flesh and blood? If so, would he even like the boy? No, not a boy; he’d have celebrated nineteen winters. More importantly, what would this young man think of some stranger showing up after all this time claiming to be kin? Pondering these possibilities had Jarek’s stomach astir. It roiled even more when a town came into view.

  Hagley pointed to the fortressed village appearing on the horizon. “There it is, that’s Stalwart.”

  The town seemed to increase in size as their wagon drew closer. Its fortified walls stood a good twenty cubits high, five times the height of a man. Soon their horses’ hoof beats were echoing off its buttressed walls. Their wagon rumbled beneath a giant gatehouse portcullis; past a pair of pike men; onto cobbled streets that lead to the village proper. His chest tightened at the possibility of finally finding family.

  “Where can I take you?”

  Jarek surveyed the surroundings. “My business is with the town parish. Are you familiar with it?”

  “Yes sir.” Hagley pointed. “See those two buildings?”

  Jarek shaded his eyes, squinting. “Yes, but neither looks very churchlike.”

  “Nor are they. The one on the left is a cadet institute where soldiers train. The other is an academy for highborn ladies. If you look in between them, you can make out the tip of the parish’s spire.”

  They wove their way through the crush of artisans jamming the roadway. Hagley slowed as they approached a spot where the wheel-rutted gatehouse road intersected the cobbled avenue that split the town in two. Market Street was emblazoned on the crossroads stone. To one side were a myriad of shoppes, inns and tenements, and a foundry. Had Damián worked there?

  A marketplace was on the other side, with denizens and merchant tents so numerous only someone on foot could weave through the crowd. Livestock were there—the stench of their dung overwhelming. As Hagley’s wagon climbed the hill, their view broadened. Inside Stalwart’s walls was a fortressed garrison with its own set of abutments. Filling the wide gap between the inner and outer walls were the shanties of the common folk, and row upon row of wagons, likely some caravan making a stopover.