At this point I feel a need to explain that I’ve posted the first 1,000 – 3,000 words of things I’ve written in the past year and a half or so, all crammed into the same notebook. I’ll be continuing this trend with other works, as a way to display the jack-of-all-trades (and master of nothing) approach I’ve had to writing genres for years. So far I’ve put up samples of: realistic fiction, science fiction, a semi-urban fantasy, and the following is high fantasy.
I’m not crazy about the opening segment, but it seemed like a straight forward way to introduce the reader to an important aspect of the culture. When I do get around to working on this story again, likely only a fragment of it will survive.
(1/?)
Geiphren closed his eyes and sank into the rhythms of his body, seeing the glow of the embers with his mind, sifting through them with his hand and no fear. He squeezed the power of flowing time on it and guided it to change, but before it was complete an unpleasant sting teased his attention.
He looked and a turf of grass unraveled, rising to familiar impassable mountains in the distance, a plains storm filling the sky and sending lightning to the earth. Three cracks tore into the ground and a snake rose from each, swaying and searching for several moments before slithering to each other, tangling in a knot and pulling apart.
As they separated they changed shape, two women, one man, and they walked away from each other without backward glances, in different directions. Now from the cracks armies emerged and turned the green grass red, the bodies mounted and the stink clung to Geiphren. Far away, one of the mountains crumbled and the fighting stopped.
The pile of bodies began to move and a snake emerged from the peak and the moment Geiphren recognized the human it became he wrenched himself free of the Seeing state.
He dropped the stone from his hand and turned, grabbing the incense stick burning in its holder. “Master?” he called out nervously.
A door opened and sunlight penetrated the dim, stuffy room. “Geiphren, how goes it?”
He glanced down at the diamond he had created, and then at the silhouette of his teacher as his real eyes still struggled to adjust. “Ruined, Master. A vision was forced on me.”
Master Retnon stepped into the room, making him a little easier to see. “How?” Geiphren held up the incense and Retnon took it. “Jinhenrai. You are right. What did you see?”
He thought about the plain storm and the mountains. “The past, I think. It’s something to do with the rulers, it was unclear.”
Retnon sucked in a breath. “You’d best keep this vision to yourself, Geiphren. Nothing good comes from reacting to visions of the rulers.”
“I know, Master.” Geiphren had studied the ripples of the Diviner’s Words as had every student of Sight. The consequences and the benefits. “But who put this herb to burn behind me?”
“You may try to see if you wish, but if you do not act on the vision, affect more lives, you will likely never know. Still, I will speak with the watch captain, perhaps someone was seen.” Retnon looked down at the shimmering stone that had been Geiphren’s project. “Find a way to unmake that.”
Geiphren gave him a curious look which Retnon smiled at but offered no advice, closing the door behind him when he left. The younger man sighed and picked up the diamond that bore an image in each facet. He was sure he had seen at least part of the past, one of the many battles between the Northern tribesman and the Southern kingdom, and that the storm and the collapsing mountain were some of the disasters the Diviners of that time had foretold. But that last woman’s face and figure formed from the snake had been the Queen, and he wasn’t sure if that first trio were her descendants or her ancestors. She was dying now, so if her death triggered something then he had caught a glimpse of the royal’s future, for which he could be put to death.
He wrapped his fist tight around the diamond and feverishly prayed for guidance in destroying it.
~*~
Thousands of people stood in rows crowding the avenue from the palace, twisting down to the gates of the city and out to the river, which was lined with more mourning spectators and their haphazard living arrangements: tents and wash buckets and cook fires cobbled together in a few nights. Solemnly, they watched the procession of guards, nobles, and royalty march by, quietly singing farewell songs. The humming accompaniment of the watchers would rise and fall occasionally, creating beauty and sorrow in harmonious sound.
Four horses pulled a black cart carved all over with motifs of waves with diamond crust foam. A closed casket was its burden, heaped over with rippling silver and blue cloth and all manner of small trinkets, parting gifts after she passed on.
Following that was the tall king, dignified in white and gray, a simple gold circlet crossing his forehead to demarcate his status. Beside him trotted the princess wearing a shimmering dark blue dress and a frozen look on her young face. Rage throbbed in Cali’s veins in place of grief, blood rushed to her cheeks, but she knew better than to show her contempt so publicly. Let them think she was still in shock, let them think she was a pretty young princess mature enough to moderate her expressions of sorrow. Leave them happy with their illusions of you, her mother had told her whenever she wanted to throw her temper at someone who vexed her. Do not remind them that you have as many faults as them.
Cali felt like her heart was going to pound right through her breast bone. She wrapped her arms around herself and held her breath for a count of ten. Her father touched her shoulder lightly, concern on his face when she glanced up at him.
“I’m fine,” she muttered, the lie that passed her lips so often now.
He knew better, but did not question her here. There was no point.
A sharp wind greeted them outside the city’s enclosing wall and nearly everyone shivered. The ladies and noblemen arrayed behind the queen’s casket gestured for cloaks or shawls but the king and princess strode on without giving the sudden chill any particular attention.
Near to the waterfront where it was coldest, Luran was snug in a wool coat and long pants, her bright hair tucked under a somber cap. Between one guard and another she had a clear, if narrow view of the road and the columns of soldiers and people who marched down to the docks, a coordinated affair of grimness and intent. For Luran, it was an exercise in discipline, maintaining silence, a stoic expression and the same stance as long as she could. It was a game to her, and she only distantly felt the grief of the people around her.
The only reason she was here was because her father had been called back from the border to serve in the vanguard of the Queen’s funeral. Once the palace guard assembled along the roadway to keep civilians out of the way, Luran had taken up her post and maintained it all day, though only now did the advance guard appear, drums in their midst, songs on their lips. They had heard the distant humming from the city, but the people out here were too quiet, attentive, eyes curiously roving over the bier of the queen, the king regent, the princess, only heir of the throne.
Luran looked hard at the little royal, thinking she might be cold in that simple dress, but a hot heart showed, even in the glimpse of her eyes. For the first time, Luran felt true sympathy for the loss; she had never known her own mother, but she would be devastated if her father died, not to mention completely alone.
Shivering, her pale eyes scanned the noble’s face and then the guards in their worn mail, proud signs of battle rather than shiny and unused like that of the palace soldiers. There was a low murmur of praise for these men and women and Luran grinned in spite of herself; these southerners knew and loved those who kept them safe.
She thought she saw her father but it was harder to recognize him in armor, and she only had a two inch window to catch him in. She wasn’t worried, though, she could find him at the docks later, he wasn’t part of the squad seeing the queen out to sea and then lighting her ship on fire.
When the soldiers relaxed and let people into the road again, Luran slithered through two of them and sprinted down to the water. The vanguard was still grouped together, but one keen man had his gaze turned out and saw her darting towards them. He waved her over and clapped her on the shoulder. “Did you have fun, my lamb?” Cadul asked.
“Can’t wait to do it again,” she answered brightly.
“Sereph, look who we have here,” he engaged one of the men near him. “Banith, see?”
“Who’s this lad?” Sereph peered at her and then jumped. “By the moons!”
“What, who is he?” Banith frowned at her.
Luran grinned and made as if to step on his foot. “C’mon, Banith, don’t play.”
His eyes widened. “The sea take me, Luran!” He turned to Cadul incredulously. “You’ve got to get her in proper clothes, she looks like a boy!”
“It saves more trouble than it causes,” Cadul shrugged. “In a year or two, it won’t matter how she dresses, her body will express itself.”
“I look forward to seeing you stumble about me then,” she teased unabashedly, pushing her cap back off her brow.
“Whatever her clothes might prevent, that mouth invites tenfold,” Sereph grumbled to which Cadul laughed.
Luran had pushed her hat too far and the river wind eagerly snatched it off her head, pulling on her bright hair which glinted in the watery late autumn sun.
The sudden movement and glimmer caught the dark eyes of Saleneira as she leaned on the rail at the rear of the barge slowly drifting down the river. She squinted at the young boy chasing his cap the length of the dock and almost tumbling into the river to rescue it, but she thought she recognized the soldier who caught him around the waist and hauled him over his shoulder like a grain sack.
Saleneira glanced at her father, and then casually asked, “Isn’t that Guardsman Cadul?” Yensil turned to the dock briefly and nodded once, completely disinterested. She watched the pair and their familiarity. “I didn’t know he had a son.”
Yensil frowned at her now. “Cadul doesn’t have a son and it isn’t your business if he does. Do not meddle over things like that. Your betrothal will be managed for you.”
“No need to be so harsh, beloved.” Like the soothing spirit she was, Yensil’s wife, Saleneira’s step-mother, glided over and rested a hand on each of them, but smiled at the girl. “Cadul has a daughter, not a son, Saleneira.”
She looked across the water and they had not gone far enough to impede her sight, though the bright-cheeked youth was upright again, standing with her feet planted wide like any prideful lad’s. “She looked like a boy,” she commented softly. “Cadul handled her like one.” She had seen her own father sling her four-year-old half-brother around like that, too.
“She had no mother and they’ve lived in the north the past ten years where civilization is less rigid,” Maryenna replied, running a hand down the slight curve of her belly that harbored her second child.
“Cadul has written to me that she’s a demon on horseback,” her father spoke idly, but the glance her gave Saleneira was unfriendly. “Perhaps you should ride with her.”
Maryenna was wise to her husband’s antagonism. “Do not taunt her, beloved. She is only just recovered last week.” Seeking to divert further barbs, she said, “Perhaps Her Highness would like a companion her own age, Saleneira. It is why you were invited.”
Saleneira dipped her head in acknowledgement and strode to the hatch to the lower level. The Queen’s bier was guarded at the bow of the ship and a dozen nobles and their spouses mingled on the deck. Below there were private quarters for the king and princess and only the door guard stopped her to ask her business. “I came to see if Her Highness wished my company,” she answered simply.
“No.” Cali’s firm voice penetrated the door and they guard gaze Saleneira a pointed look.
Her heart ached a little in her chest to hear the turmoil in the young girl’s voice and she leaned a little closer as speaking loudly was something she disliked. “Your Highness, it is Saleneira.” She bit her lip, unsure of how to convey her sympathy but unwilling to fumble in front of the guard whom she did not know.
Fortunately, Cali reconsidered and opened the door abruptly. “In,” she commanded. The guard bowed and stepped aside so Saleneira could shuffle by. Cali shut the door herself and began pacing which Saleneira suspected is what she’d been doing all along. “Aunt Laithawen didn’t get all this nonsense,” Cali remarked almost savagely.
Saleneira did not take offense and lowered her gaze. “She was not the Queen, Your Highness,” she answered quietly. “And she asked for a quiet ceremony before she died.”
“My mother almost forbade your father’s second marriage. She said it was dishonorable so soon after, that his first duty was to you now that you were in line for the throne.”
Cali seemed determined to cause hurt, an attempt to alleviate her own turmoil, but she chose her target poorly. “My father is a fine steward for an heir,” Saleneira said calmly. “My step-mother truly more so. I am grateful Aunt Kravena did not deprive me of her affection.”
/termination
There was a little more, but at this point it establishes the existing relationships between the girls, such as they are.
Problems I have: I hate starting paragraphs and I loathe starting entire stories with someone’s name. When I wrote it I don’t think I thought much about why Master Retnon would be near enough to hear him, but not near enough to realize someone had broken in; if I did, I never got to writing the explanation and have since forgotten my reasoning. Retnon, who seems to have some dissonance with his reactions to the vision and the apparent break-in. Ack. Although the nonchalant suggestion to destroy a diamond was humorous to me; ‘you’re screwed, better do something about it.’
I also don’t usually shift POVs in the same passage the way I do with this one, but in the original inception it served its rather obvious purpose. In fact the true original touched all three girls within a page of each other.
Sereph says ‘by the moons,’ but I don’t think I ever meant for this world to have more than one; that’s either a cultural thing or a misconception about the stages of the moon that I’ll have to explore or discard upon rewrite.
Write The Path 