A BEGINNING AND AN END
Waiting in the dark, in the cold; yellowed sandstone and aged oaken barrels, their only shelter. Outside those close walls was the clean air, the ocean, the rich soil. Outside, it was life.
In their darkness, where they waited, she breathed in deep of the damp, sheltering cold and clung to the hope, amidst fear and pain, that this would finally be the moment.
She was exhausted, working to bring forth that light when all around them was death, destruction, and terrible grief. The beauty, the elegance, the powerful reign, the entire world of the Sceleste, had fallen. They were at its end. Yet one last bit of hope remained. And she was working, fighting, to give it life.
“You are strong,” he said. “You can do this. Just a little longer… I know it hurts, I know you are tired… but it is so close now. She is close now…” Tears of worry glistened on his cheeks, waiting, watching, wanting to protect his love, though in this one moment of time he was helpless to do anything more. All he could do was hold her close and try to pass on his strength.
He could feel it with her, her terrible fear as her will, her seemingly endless strength, began to wane. It was through their Life Bond, an ancient gift of the Seven, as sacred as the Sceleste, as sacred as the Stars, where man and wife were brought together; were made one. They could feel and sense each other’s emotions, their pains, their pleasures. They were closer than any two beings could ever be. Yet in this he could not be with her, he could not feel the pain she bore, for she had to bear it alone. You are not alone, my beloved. I am with you in every other way, wishing more than anything that I could bear it for you.
“Please, Ember, do not give up,” he pleaded.
Ember’s glassy-eyed gaze moved to him, and a new fear, one that he had never felt before, ran through her. Was she about to give in?
“No… please. We are so close now, it’s almost over. If you give up I will lose you both…” His voice caught on a sob, realizing how close to death they really were. “I can’t lose you, Ember. I just can’t. I love you too much.”
Ember watched him, her blue eyes shining like starlight, filled with so much love. She nodded, panting heavily as the next pain shuddered through her. She leaned forward, her courage and strength renewed by his words. She bore down with a grunted cry, screaming from the force that her own body was putting her through. Nearly three full days she had been fighting this battle, and in moments it could be lost. The woman above her stood waiting, crying for her, encouraging her to make it happen this time. It was just one more fierce and mighty push. She was determined it would be her last, knowing that she had nothing left to give.
Ember fell back, gasping, her body throbbing, shaking and weak from the long efforts.
A cry pierced the darkness. A light of hope was held close in Eleanor’s arms. The newborn child cried for life, for warmth, for love. She wrapped the child and passed the bundle to him.
John looked at his daughter for the first time and tears of joy streamed down his face. “Ember, she is beautiful, you did it. She is here…” He laid the babe in her mother’s arms, watching the two he loved most in this world. He felt the resonating joy that washed through his wife, this woman so beautiful, her soul straight from the light of the Stars.
They held each other for a long time, a family made whole and complete at last.
“I must take care of her, John, she has lost a lot of blood…” Eleanor was calm, but her voice still carried an air of worry.
John nodded and stepped aside. He was eager to leave this place, for they had stayed too long. He wondered on the others. Had they survived? Did they get away? It was only a week ago that his dearest friend had become a father as well. It had happened right here in this very room. A son had been born to him. They would have waited and left together, but word had come, an urgent message coded only for them: Kahrus was on his way.
That was three days ago. They were planning to make a run for it when Ember’s labor had begun. Fraught with complications, it was too risky. She was bleeding inside and the babe had not turned correctly. If they had tried to move her, they would have lost them both. John had sent his oldest friend and his new family away. One way or another, they would meet again some day.
“John,” Ember’s sweet voice was so weak, she could hardly move or even sit up on her own.
“Yes, I am here.”
“Did Arvah and her son get out in time?”
“Yes,” John assured. “They should be far away from here by now.”
Ember closed her eyes and let out a slow breath of relief. John could feel her unease, she was still terribly afraid. He moved closer to her where she lay on her blankets near the dwindling fire. He wanted to ask what was wrong, yet he worried he would only upset her more. Instead he knelt beside her. Their new daughter was quietly suckling at her mother’s breast within her gentle and protective embrace, a tiny hand holding on, already clinging to her.
Ember would not meet his questioning gaze.
“Her name… Have you made your decision?” John asked.
Ember nodded. “Yes, she is Mahren Bell, and she will take your name instead of mine. She will be a Mason.”
John was surprised, it was common in the Scelestial tradition that newborn girls take their mother’s name. It wasn’t law, they could choose either parent’s surname, but most wanted their name to live on from one generation to the next.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Bellatri is well known, and a connection could easily be made,” she explained.
“All right, then it shall be as you wish.” John understood the need to keep her identity hidden, it was even more imperative now. The thought of losing either one of them tore at his heart.
“John, my necklace, help me remove it,” Ember asked quite suddenly. She continued to watch her child as though unable to tear her eyes away.
Wondering what she was thinking, John complied. He slid his hand across the back of her dampened neck and gently brushed her long copper hair aside. The delicate chain caught the light of the fire as he worked open the clasp. He had made her this necklace and the pendant that hung was of the rare blue Ahstra Terrah—a star stone—cut into the shape of a teardrop amidst white gold wings. A star with wings, the ancient symbol of the Sceleste. He had also made her a ring to match. It was to have been a surprise, a gift to celebrate the birth of their first child. But sadly, in their rush to evacuate the great Temple Palace, it had been lost.
Ember took the necklace from him, and stared at it, holding it close to their daughter. The pendant hung within her palm, and she closed her fingers around it. John could feel the change in the air, the familiar tingle along the back of his neck. She was using her power. This stone was rare because it could hold three of the four powerful elements of life. Ember had the ability to wield both water and earth, and she was now imbuing some of that power into the crystal. She opened her eyes and held the pendant so he could see it once more. The stone seemed to brighten with a sudden flash, before fading back to its original sheen.
John didn’t have to ask, he had an idea what she was doing as Ember wrapped the delicate chain around the tiny wrist.
“I give you this stone for protection, my daughter, my dear sweet Mahren. It will keep dark eyes from finding you, and keep you safe until you find another light, another Love that will promise to protect you.” Ember kissed the innocent babe on her head where soft, light hairs were already shining gold in the light of the flickering flames.
“Ember, you can rest now, but we should go as soon as you are able,” John rested his big palm on his daughter’s belly and felt the tiny heart beating within. Life, precious and new amongst such dark and despairing times. She was hope and love made real, made tangible, proof that not all was lost.
He felt the slight change in Ember’s emotion. She was shaking her head, her gaze had lifted and was drifting across the darkened room, though she was not seeing it.
“No, John,” she whispered. “I will not be leaving here.”
John wasn’t sure if he had heard her correctly. “Ember?” He prayed she would say something different than what he had heard.
“It’s over, John. My fight has ended. It is too late for me now.” She was trying to stay calm, working to keep her voice even.
John shook his head, he didn’t want to believe it. “What do you mean? No, Ember, you’ll be fine, Eleanor is good at healing, she has fixed you.”
“No,” she whispered. “We are not alone. The Emperor is here. He is out there in the courtyard, with over one-hundred of his First Ring,” she swallowed hard, tears beginning to well in her eyes. “The others, Eleanor’s husband, the soldiers who vowed to protect us…” She shook her head.
Eleanor was across the room, trying to wash the blood-soaked linens. She froze at her words.
“They are dead,” Ember met Eleanor’s stunned gaze. “Your husband is dead,” her voice catching on the terrible truth.
Eleanor shook her head, unable to believe it.
“I am sorry, Elle. He tried to protect us, they all did… I’m so sorry…”
“No… No…” Eleanor fell to her knees sobbing.
John rushed to the woman who had given them shelter, who had saved Ember’s life, knowing there was no way to comfort her. Though they were not Sceleste, Eleanor and her husband had been as close as two could be without the added strength of the Life Bond. Yet in his stunned and fatigued mind this knowledge was hitting him hard in the chest. Kahrus was here. What did this mean for them? A chill ran through him.
“How long, Ember? How long have you known?” He asked.
Ember held her babe close, keeping her calm and quiet, yet the child began to move, threatening to cry as though she could sense the heavy despair in the room.
“Three days,” she whispered. “He arrived just after Arvah left. I knew then that it was already too late for me.”
“But if he’s here, than why hasn’t he stormed in? There must be a mistake, perhaps your senses were affected by the long labor…”
“No,” Ember shook her head. “He’s here, and he knows where I am. He can feel me. But he doesn’t know about her.” She kissed Mahren on the cheek tenderly. “He has been waiting, biding his time. He knows that I can sense him. He is waiting for me to run.”
“Oh gods,” Eleanor cried.
“Then we are leaving now. I won’t let him have you,” John began to rush around the room, grabbing only what was important. “I will carry you out of here if I must, both of you. We’ve lost so many… I won’t lose you, I won’t…”
“John, you know he will see, you know he will find me. He won’t stop until we are all dead.”
“They don’t know of the passage, we can escape through here and before he realizes, we will be far ahead of them,” John was adamant that there was a way out of this new danger. It wasn’t too late; it just could not be too late.
“Yes, you are right, but I have to stay. He doesn’t know about our daughter. It is me he wants. If we run, he will catch us, and then he will have her as well,” Ember swallowed. Her voice a calm, warm breeze in a storm of destruction. “John, you must take her and run. You must leave me behind.”
John rushed to Ember’s side, shaking his head. “No… I cannot leave you here, Ember. I will not…”
“Yes, you must…”
As if to cement the enormity of this fact, a sudden pounding shook the heavy oak door at the top of the cellar stairs. Only three doors stood in their way.
“He knows, he can sense the change, he suspects that I might act…”
“No… I will fight, I will protect you,” John unsheathed his sword and it rang in the dark stillness. “I will die if I must, but I will not leave you, Ember. I cannot abandon you to that monster. Eleanor will take Mahren away from here; she will escape with the child.”
Ember grabbed his collar and pulled him close, finding a strength he didn’t know she still had. She was using everything in her power, everything she had left, to will him to leave. “John, listen to me. It has to be you. You must take her and protect her. You must tell her about her mother, and teach her about the Sceleste. She could be the last, John. Kahrus must not find her.”
“No…” John sobbed, pleading to stay, pleading to die at her side.
“Please, John, you must do this.” Her already depleted strength was quickly running out, she was desperate. “Don’t let our daughter be alone in this world. She needs you, John. She needs your love,” Ember’s tears fell on her child as she held her between them.
John knew that she was right, but everything in him was telling him to stay, to fight, that running would be wrong, a coward’s act. He leaned forward and embraced her, hardly able to breathe. The pounding of the doors was growing louder, they had made it to the second door.
“John…” Eleanor was waiting for him, ready to run. Ready to take the child if it came to it.
John held Ember’s gaze, they looked at each other, the decision, a terrible decision having to be made.
“Run now, so you can fight another day. Run now, so she can live,” Ember’s strong words resonated within. He understood her desperate need. But to leave her… Oh gods, to leave her. She was about to die… In that moment, facing their end, he kissed her. Tenderly, passionately, putting all of his love into that kiss so she could feel it, so that she would not meet her end without him. “I love you, Ember… I love you… Oh gods, I can’t leave… don’t make me leave you.”
The sounds of clanking armor, of heavy boots and shouted commands, rang out from the room beyond. The door shuddered with a resounding bang. They were about to break through.
“Take her, John… Take her and run,” Ember cried against his cheek. “I love you. I will always be with you…”
John’s vision blurred. He could barely see as his tears came, as the sobs began to shake him. Mahren was cradled in his arms, a tiny bundle that he had to protect at all costs. He gazed at his wife, the one whom he loved more than anything in this world, the woman he would die for—already the cost was too high.
“Take him out of here, Elle, please, get them out…” Ember cried.
He couldn’t make himself move, but as Eleanor’s arms grabbed him, pulled on him, urging him toward the long, dark passage, he realized that he had to go. She was not only his wife, she was Sceleste, and he, a servant of the Sceleste; this was their last command.
“John, come with me… this way. You must…” Eleanor pleaded. Her words sounded distant and strange, yet he complied. He watched as the cold distance grew between him and his beloved Ember Grace.
John hesitated at the mouth of the passage. He held her gaze, and her calmness staggered him, never flinching, never wavering, even as she knew that this would be the last glimpse of love she would ever see. She was forcing herself to be strong for him, to meet her end with peaceful dignity.
“Avenge us, John… Avenge us,” Ember cried; her last words as Eleanor forcefully pulled him back.
The sound of stone scraping across the floor was barely heard over the loud crash of the final door. John ran blindly through the endless tunnel, Eleanor pushing him, urging him on. Their was silence save for their panted, anguished breaths, their shuffling footfalls as they staggered onward.
They made it out onto the beach, the dark of night bright and open compared to the suffocating black of the narrow tunnel. Yet he hardly noticed. The beach was to their left, the hillsides of the winery behind them. Once a place of life and beauty, and refuge, it was now a horrendous nightmare straight from the depths of Dehorc.
They ran on, as far as they could, as though more than just the need to put distance between the babe and Kahrus spurred them on. Eleanor directed him, pulling him, forcing him to change direction toward the grassy mounds to their right, where trees and hills could hide them from the soldiers. Yet they were not following, they didn’t have to, for they already had what they wanted.
John was concentrating inward, using his Bond to feel his wife, to stay connected, to stay with her. He could feel her fear, her growing panic, her fight to stay strong. What was happening? What was Kahrus going to do to her?
In a sudden flash, gut wrenching pain hit him. He fell to his knees, sucking in air, forcing himself to breathe.
“No…” he cried.
Eleanor was immediately beside him, taking the child from his arms. “John, hold on… it has started. Hold on… concentrate on my voice.”
But he barely heard her as the pain ignited, growing stronger and fiercer every second. He screamed his desperation, and pounded the ground with his anger, his grief. She was dying, his Ember was dying. Kahrus was taking her away from him, destroying her. He had seen and he had heard others lose their battle against the man who sought to destroy them all; one by one, he had killed them. One by one, the Sceleste had fallen; screams in the night as they suffered the loss of their beloved wives. And now he was losing her too. He had vowed to protect her, he had vowed to save her, but he had run instead. Now they would suffer it together.
His echoed screams rang out across the hills, as though praying, pleading, for the mercy of the Star’s Light to save them, to save her. But it would not come this night, just as it had not come before. Somewhere just to the south, a line of light began to ascend. A pure white beacon of terrible beauty, cascading upwards, shimmering, reaching for the Stars. Ember’s light, her power, her soul, was being taken from her.
All he could do was watch and writhe in anguished despair as her pain, their pain, continued to pound through him. Its beauty shined on for several minutes, changing color only twice. And then all at once, it faded and was gone.
John screamed his heart-wrenching grief. Now the Bond would sever, and Ember’s soul would be gone from him forever.
Darkness lies cold and empty.
Like a shroud of despair, it hangs over all.
Yet out of the mist and shadow comes a light, shining as a star.
It rises like a beacon in the night.
Hope will be ignited,
Love will set her free.
For the way of the Prophecy has come,
And the Stars shall chart her destiny.
1
Splinters of wood sailed into the air, some reaching as high as the wooden fence that enclosed the side-yard of the blacksmith’s shop. The hot, humid air was thick, clinging to the skin; the fine dust from the parched ground choked. Yet none of this deterred the small figure who was working tirelessly to perfect the ancient sword technique. Steel rang with each strike, rivaling the sound of heavy hammer on anvil beyond the wall of the shop. The once majestic tree trunk was now an asymmetrical hourglass shape, becoming more shredded and distorted with every blow.
The figure paused; sweat dripped down brow and neck, for the thick cedar post continued to stand a proud challenge to the onslaught. The workout started again with a determined air to get it right. Dust swirled in clouds around boots of faded, dark leather, and clung to brown trousers that fit nearly two sizes too big.
“Martin!” The loud booming voice called a second time, barely audible over the bellows of the furnace.
The figure stopped again and frowned in irritation, blowing at a wisp of short, copper hair that had drifted into eyes of bright blue. The stray hair stubbornly resisted, clinging to a damp nose. The elegant long sword was lowered in exasperation, its tip coming to rest in the powder-like dirt.
With a sigh of resignation, the figure, appearing to be a young boy of only sixteen, turned a curious eye toward the shop and shuffled the few feet to the worn wooden door, where the paint, long since peeled, had given way to a glistening silver sheen. Dark-stained redwood beams held the shop together and stood in high contrast. Weathered window panes, caked with soot on the inside, made the moving shapes within indistinguishable, yet one or two broken squares still offered the chance to survey the blacksmith’s urgent need for assistance.
Two men stood just inside. With a nervous swallow, the boy took a step back. The pair were well known in the town of Serhena Valley. The older was tanned and weathered from years of hard work outside. The younger, in his early twenties, had dark brown eyes and hair. His build was tall and muscular. His skin darkened slightly from doing the same work as the older man.
Hesitant to enter the shop and do as he was bidden, a slender hand tugged absently at the loose-fitting linen shirt as though irritated by something beneath—even in this heat the shirt was laced all the way to the top. A finger scratched at a lightly freckled nose, leaving a dark soot smudge behind.
“Martin! Where are ya, boy?” The blacksmith called again.
The boy flinched at the anger in the voice. With a deep breath to steady the nerves, the figure called Martin pulled open the door and stomped into the shop, nearly tripping over the uneven stair. The forgotten door slammed shut behind him and then bounced open again, rattling on squeaky hinges as he stumbled to the counter.
The blacksmith watched silently from his anvil. A look of sympathy passed through dark, sparkling eyes, which always seemed to hold a mirthful countenance, even on the darkest of days. Martin avoided his gaze, he wasn’t in the mood to be cheerful at the moment. While he slouched at the counter, the door continued to rattle loudly. Pretending not to notice, Martin set the sword down on the counter none too quietly.
“Morning,” the boy’s voice had an innocent and sweet quality, even as the words were mumbled and barely audible.
“Hello, Martin,” Horavol Finlon answered in his usual quiet and deliberate way. He tilted his wide-brimmed hat and shifted closer to the counter. He leaned an elbow across its smooth surface with the ease and familiarity of a man who had been coming to this blacksmith shop for several years.
The younger man behind him was his son, Raiff Finlon. He shuffled his feet, eager to get on with their business, clearly uncomfortable in the added heat from the furnace. He stood far enough away from his father so he could be near the open shop front, where four large redwood posts held up the roof—yet on a day as hot and still as today, not much air passed through. The place where all the work was done cast its iron-hot breath outward, away from the walls that enclosed the back half of the building. It was late afternoon and the only light issuing forth was from the furnace, as nearly every window was not only covered in a heavy layer of soot, but was made near to useless by the configuration of shelves stretched across them, filled with tools and jigs of every kind both piled and hanging. The building looked like a torture room pulled up from the underworld of Dehorc—or at least the way the intricate drawings in all the books would have depicted.
“Can I help you, sir?” Martin asked, risking a shy glance up.
“Well, I’m hoping you can. We have a few horses ready for shod. Some of the new yearlings you and your father came out to see last spring. Of course, the army wants to take ‘em—for the war effort they say…” Horavol frowned.
Martin nodded, not needing to be reminded. For the last three years, everyone in town had been called upon to donate to the war effort, though most people didn’t completely understand what this war was about. The Emperor’s emissaries had come to their small town a few times, preaching about the integral part each person played in sustaining the army. And though they had explained how much it meant to support the Imperial effort in defeating the evil hordes making ready to invade from the north, such news was taken with a grain of salt. No one really believed it, since they hadn’t heard so much as a whisper from anyone living beyond the Anwhar Mountains. Being the closest town to the immense northernmost range, they had neither seen nor heard of anyone venturing up into its dangerous peaks—or coming down from them. Yet this fact hadn’t stopped the mysterious and dark men, cloaked in crimson and charcoal and bearing the sigil of a dragon blowing fire across its back, from spewing their promises of great reward to any who gave of themselves.
Thankfully these men had not come back in over a year. Now, it was only the occasional patrols heading to and from the stronghold of Bren Hill that came into the Valley, where they often pressed their weight around ordering donated supplies and drinking free ale.
“We’ll take care of it, Mr. Finlon. How many?” The boy’s eyes darted hopefully between Raiff and his father, anxiety all but gone.
Horavol sighed heavily, thinking to himself. The look on his face was more telling than usual. Again, the Emperor’s Army would not be paying for the supplies. It was another huge loss to a once thriving business in Serhena Valley. People were starving, the draught was destroying what the Imperials hadn’t already stolen, and the ridiculous fear of the Sceleste was spreading like a disease through every town.
“I’ll do it for free, Mr. Finlon. Don’t worry, Johnquil and I understand. You can pay us back another way.” The boy’s blue eyes held a sympathy beyond his age.
Relief fell across the old man’s features, yet the sadness remained. He would be losing some of his best horses. He could always raise more, but that took time and money, and like so many other things, money was becoming in short supply.
“Thank you, Marty, you don’t know how much this means to me. I’ve got twenty-five that need shoeing…” Horavol hesitated, his pale blue eyes began to water and his countenance dropped, making him look much older. The wind-blown roughness of his years pressed his skin into worn leather, his shoulders drooped, made heavy by the burdens of the past year.
With a comforting hand, Martin touched the toughened skin of the older’s arm. A look of complete understanding, a knowing smile, and a warmth like that of a grandfather met the boy’s gaze. Horavol’s huge hand brushed the delicate one gently, and then the fleeting emotion was gone.
Raiff twisted his mouth impatiently. He had not seen the quiet gesture as he waved a hat to cool his sweating face. “So… we done here, pa? I’m to meet Tad and Davies for fishing, they’re expecting me.”
“Go ahead, son, we’re done here. Marty is kind enough to take care of all our needs.”
Raiff stopped waving his hat long enough to glance at the boy, who was much smaller than the men in the shop. “Hey, Marty,” he said as though he had just now come to notice that he was there. “You’re welcome to come with us…” he shrugged, “next time, I mean. I’m sure a little extra meat in your meals would do you some good,” Raiff grinned at his own joke, the tease meant in a brotherly way.
Martin had trouble looking Raiff in the eye. “Th-thank you, Raiff, I would like that,” was the stammered reply. Used to such taunts, he ignored the remark about his size.
Raiff nodded once and threw a lopsided grin, his brown eyes sparkled.
The room shifted, the ground heaved, and a buzzing in the air crescendoed into a woman’s terror-filled screams. A room of black shrouded the young girl. Why am I crying? A whimpering fear filled her chest with heavy sobs; she couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t move.
A man stood before her—Raiff. A woman lay stretched and twisted at his feet. Dark hair swirled around her face, while a pool of crimson blossomed from her body.
The woman was dead.
Raiff’s horrified gaze lifted to meet the blue eyes of the girl who was weeping. Do I cry out of fear? Anguish?
Copper hair trembled against pale cheeks as she shook beneath his terrible scrutiny, his eyes filled with fear and pain. Darkness shifted across his features. The look on Raiff’s usually handsome face became pure hate and rage. He was seeing directly into her soul. He knew her secret, he knew the truth she sought to hide from the world.
Her heart stopped and she stumbled back a step. All of his hate and his rage—his blame—was directed at her.
Raiff moved toward her with long menacing strides, his eyes never once drifting from hers. The cold ringing of a blade being drawn echoed from the shadows that were closing in around her. There was a glint of steel. He was closer, the sword in his hand began to rise.
Raiff was going to kill her.
The girl rushed to take a step back and her head hit the hard, dusty floor.
She was back in the shop. Her blue eyes opened to see her father, Raiff, and Horavol standing over her, their expressions worried. She glanced at each of them feeling extremely confused—and extremely foolish. Did I just have a dream?
“I’m sorry,” she said, trying to sit up in a hurry. “It’s this dark-awful heat. I must have been out in the sun too long,” she stammered, hoping to make up some kind of excuse that made sense.
Raiff and Horavol helped her to her feet, lifting her under each arm as though she weighed nothing. She feared she would faint again just from Raiff’s touch. She swayed a bit and the ground began to settle. A sudden headache forced her eyes shut—it was enough to take her breath away.
“Are you all right?” Raiff asked, his beautiful brown eyes were filled with genuine concern. His hand still gripped her arm as though she might fall again at any moment.
“Thank you, I’m fine now. I just need some water.” She couldn’t help feeling more than a little foolish.
Raiff let go of her arm, and a flash of a thought went through her mind; she half wanted to fall down a second time just to have his hands on her again. Foolish girl. Raiff sees the awkward boy, Martin, not the woman I really am. He must think me so weak.
Afraid to see another vision she was hesitant to meet his gaze, but all that stared back was his comforting smile.
Seeing that she would be all right, Horavol backed away and shook hands with her father. “Thank you, John. Marty will take care of our needs. He’ll give you the details.” He turned to her, “Get some rest, don’t bother coming out to the ranch tonight. We can wait until tomorrow morning before the heat of the day settles in. The dehan army can wait another day or two.”
Johnquil’s concern had not wavered as he continued to watch his daughter. She tried to smile back confidently, hoping to convey that she was fine.
His long examination finally shifted back to his oldest friend, though the worry had not left his face. “Fine by me, Horavol. But please let me know if you need anything else. Don’t worry about the cost, we’ll make do as always. That’s what friends are for,” John forced a smile.
The two men shook hands and John added a parting squeeze to the older man’s arm before letting him go.
Horavol and Raiff left the protection of the shaded shop. She watched them step out into the unrelenting sun to retrieve their horses. Raiff already had his fishing gear strapped to the saddle of his.
“Mahren?” Johnquil Mason stepped up to his daughter, laying a comforting hand, heavy and familiar, on her shoulder. “Are you sure you are all right? What happened just now?”
“I’m not really sure, father.” Mahren frowned as the horrible images played over in her mind. She didn’t want to repeat them. “I imagine I just overworked myself outside before coming in is all,” she shrugged. “I’ll be fine.” Mahren touched a gentle finger to the large, soot darkened hand that rested on her shoulder. A knot of shame twisted her insides over her earlier behavior. I shouldn’t have been so irritated before—he is the world to me, and I am his. We are all we have, alone in our plight; we must stick together.
John squeezed her shoulder one last time, and Mahren caught the questioning look still floating in his eyes. There was a hint of fear there too, as though he knew what she had seen.
“I’m all right, really. Just the heat is all. I’ll go and get us some water and then get dinner started.” Mahren watched him move back to his large anvil, where he had been hard at work pounding on what would be yet another donation to a war that seemed to never end—if it even existed at all.
Hoping he was satisfied by her explanation, Mahren slipped out the side door that she had stumbled through earlier, careful to keep it from slamming shut behind her this time.
Following the well-worn path along the side of their shop, Mahren paid little attention to where she was going. The property was divided into two yards. A tall, weathered fence had been built around both, offering the seclusion the two of them preferred. Passing through the gate into the second yard, she tried to avoid checking the remains of their meager and wilting garden. Normally it would have been beautiful and thriving—the fresh tomatoes, cucumbers, green beans, and even strawberries would have been ready for picking soon. But they were in dire need of rain this year and what had started to grow had finally succumbed to drought. In her efforts to ignore the sad garden, she instead noticed the empty stable and corral. It was probably a good thing they had lost their mare to illness last year, for this year they would not have been able to feed her.
Their house was attached to the back of the shop. It was one long building with each end facing a different street. Mahren went up the three steps to a round-topped door, its peeling blue paint was so weathered it looked more like the color of a sunless, dreary day rather than the blue sky it was intended to be. A small storage room and pantry divided the living area from the shop. To her left and up two more stairs was the kitchen. It was a simple home, only one large room. The back half a kitchen, the front half a sitting area, and a large porch stretching across the front.
Mahren sat at the table big enough for four people and glanced at the large stone fireplace that was the entire west wall of the house. The idea of starting a fire in this heat was unbearable. Just the thought made the long strip of material she used to bind her breasts feel even tighter. She pulled at it in frustration, hating it all the more. It itched something awful when she sweated, but there was little she could do about it.
Trying to ignore the place where her thoughts were drifting—to the disturbing dream that had occurred while she was awake—she noticed that the curtains she had made when she was young, sat still and dead in the humid air. The shadowed canopy from the large oak tree out front offered only minimal relief from the late afternoon sun. Nothing was moving outside, for there was very little activity on a day like today. Most folks stayed out of the sun while trying to finish their daily chores. Even Ginny and Edgar were absent from their front porch.
Hoping to keep as much of the noise and heat of the shop away from the rest of the townspeople, her father had built their home on the southern edge of town. Ginny and Edgar Faritus owned a leather and hide tannery across the road. They were their closest neighbors.
The main road traveled north and south through town. Their blacksmith shop was angled such to face the town square just visible beyond the wide trunks of ancient oaks, sprawling red maples, and elegant birch trees that speckled the entire landscape.
Theirs was a small town—only a few hundred people—off the beaten trail and far to the north, tucked within a protected valley beneath the vast Anwhar Mountain range. Serhena Valley didn’t have many visitors. Few ventured across the wide and fast moving Kehnell River, fed by snowmelt flowing down out of the mountains to reach them. The cold and clear river carved a path around the town’s western border before snaking toward the east to feed the deep and frigid sparkling waters of Lake Kehnell—a good source for northern Pikefish and Hoodseye Trout, including the ever elusive bottom-feeding Great Sturgeons. From the far end of the lake the South Kehnell River continued its long trek away from the mountains to meander across the southern regions of Ahrune.
Other than the bridge to the west there were very few passes into the valley. The Eastern Anwhar Mountains reached southward, its lower foothills creating the valley’s eastern border, keeping them well protected. Serhena Valley was just as its ancient name implied, ‘Peaceful’. Especially compared to other towns nearest to the larger cities in the south. Besides being hard to get to, the Imperial Army left them alone because they weren’t big enough to be a major hub for supply. It wasn’t until three years ago when the trouble first started to make its way into Serhena Valley, thanks to a small command post that had been set up near the town of Bren Hill—only twenty miles west of the river. Soon after, the Imperial Army started to exert their power within these seemingly forgotten northern towns.
Mahren pushed back the wish to get away. No, Serhena Valley is really the safest place for me. The troubles that had just recently come to them had been visited upon most other places tenfold. For the last twenty years, fear, war, and a tyrannically run regime had slowly begun to swallow the land. Any town or city worth the effort had been called upon to do their duty, leaving many places full of crime and ruin, barely livable for their disheartened and starving citizens.
This year the drought was only adding to their slow decent into poverty. The Valley normally had fair weather and always plenty of rain during the summer months. Hearty people thrived here. Folks not willing to put in the hard work or the extra effort needed to outlast a long cold winter would not survive. This fact kept the town small and free of criminals, who occasionally thought to come here to hide from the law. The snow storms that blew out of the mountains were harsh, yet spring always came back to the Valley and the world woke up again.
A normal summer was warm and pleasant, but this year the drought was making the weather unnaturally hot. Many people were losing their livelihoods. Farmers were dealing with weakened or dying crops. Livestock were dying in the stifling heat of the open fields. Without water, many cows had stopped milking and several new calves had perished for lack of food.
The old men talked of Dehorc risen, ascending from its hot depths to come and claim the world of the living. Everyone prayed to the Gods for a relief that didn’t come. Mahren didn’t know what to believe, but it was clear the Balance was shifting. And this fact only managed to fuel the worst of the troubles that had visited Serhena Valley and the rest of the land—the fear that the Sceleste had come back.
Later that evening, as Mahren relaxed on the front porch with her father, enjoying the slightly cooler breeze, she chewed over the meaning of the dream. All through dinner she had stayed silent, and so had her father. He watched her closely but he did not ask. He never asked, and for that she was grateful. Dinner had been the rest of their dried beef and remaining vegetables mixed into a light stew. She had bitterly given in to making a small fire—dried cold beef and raw vegetables were even less appealing. A couple of biscuits donated by Ginny managed to add a little more heartiness.
Mahren took a deep breath and tried to let the night air dispel her anxiety, but her father was worried, she could feel it. And when he was worried, it only added to her own.
On every beautiful night like this since she was little, she and her father took the time to sit outside on the pair of rocking chairs he had made for them. They had shared several sunsets this way, relaxing after a good meal and letting tired muscles unwind from a long day of work. But tonight she just could not settle her nerves. The weather, along with the fear that was palpable among their neighbors, only added to the sense of foreboding that this latest vision had conjured. She could not stop thinking about it, and she was reluctant to mention it to her father.
She had never told him of her strange dreams. And though she’d had similar visions in the past, this was the first to come upon her while she was awake. The moment she had looked into Raiff’s eyes she had seen and even felt the emotional pain he was in. A pain and a sadness she had always been aware of. Yet today it had been different, something had triggered this vision. Why? And who was the dead woman on the ground?