fantasy – Page 3 – three good words

January 28, 2025

The Cup and the Sword (Part 2)

Read Part 1 here.

Gav was about to add more tea to his cup when he saw something move in the shadows. He reached carefully for his knife while turning back to the fire. He watched the shadows deeper in the shed. Nothing moved. He was tired. He had been travelling for days, most of them soaked in rain. He could be seeing things. His instincts said otherwise. Something was there. But it hadn’t attacked yet. It would have had enough opportunity to pounce while he was about his own business. So why move now? Maybe it was an animal, a cat or a dog or something similar. Maybe a snowdog, they had come down after the forests burned. They could be shy creatures. Not as bad as wolves but still dangerous. Gav kept his knife close. He’d seen too much to hope for something harmless.

He waited. Nothing moved. He turned slowly to the fire. There, again.

‘Whoever you are, come out. Now.’

Nothing moved. He had to be seeing things. He waited. Nothing happened. Finally, he decided there was no reason to get anxious over shadows and turned back to the fire in full. He poured out more tea. Right then he felt something move behind him. He still had his knife, but he was also holding the pot of tea. One way or the other, the attacker would be either stabbed or scorched. Gav waited. The thing crept slowly, like a creature trying not to be seen. He stayed as he was, trying to see as far as he could. He saw something sway at the corner of his eyes. He wanted to turn but something kept him. It was neither cat nor dog nor wolf. That swaying was strange. He waited. The creature moved more and stopped. The silence was filled with rain and the crackle of fire.

Gav turned, the girl jumped. Her eyes were enormous. He had never seen such eyes before, the irises so pale they were the colour of ice. Her hair was dark and unkempt, a haphazard mass around her shoulders, blades of hay sticking out here and there. Her dress was so worn and faded it had become an unidentifiable grey. Her feet were bare. He wondered how long she had been hiding in the shed. Her face was gaunt, her stature bent over. He carefully put the pot back down. He saw her stare at it as if it were gold.

Carefully, Gav stretched out the cup with his tea. She turned her enormous eyes to him. Then she saw the cup and to his surprise held out her hand. There was something in it. It was a cup, made of clay, chipped and scratched with faint patterns. She must have saved it as her last possession. Gav nodded and took up the pot with tea. He held it out to her. Cautiously she came closer. He filled her cup slowly, watching her. The girl watched the fluid with a hungry, feral look. He set the pot aside, she scuttled back to the wall, crouched down, and started sipping hastily, blowing and sipping, holding her clay cup with both hands. Her fingers were slim and bruised with gashes, her fingernails torn. She looked as if she had been digging in soil. Roots would be scarce here.

Cautiously, Gav got to his feet and went to his saddle bags. His breeches weren’t dry, but he had an extra pair and decided to wear them. Then he took a piece of driedfruit bread, a radish, and a strip of salted meat and went back to the fire. The girl was still crouching, blowing and sipping at her tea. He reached out and touched her shoulder. She jumped as if whipped. The look in her eyes was that of abject terror.

‘Here,’ Gav said, showing her the driedfruit bread. She stared at it as if it was poisonous. ‘It’s good. Look,’ he said, broke a small piece off and ate it. ‘Eat. It’s good.’

Warily, her eyes darting like a bird’s, she reached out and finally snatched the driedfruit bread out of his hand.

‘Slowly. Slowly. Slow down. You’ll choke that way,’ he said when she stuffed the bread into her mouth. Cheeks bulging, she followed his slow chewing motions. After she finished chewing and swallowed he handed her the radish and the slice of salted meat. She stared at him for so long he feared she stopped breathing.

‘Take it, it’s good.’

She did not move, crouching as she was, cup and driedfruit bread clutched in her hands. Understanding she did not believe him, he carefully set the radish and meat before her and returned to his log. He feigned to watch the fire while drinking his tea. Through the corner of his eyes he saw her carefully reach for the radish and slice of meat. They disappeared somewhere in the folds of her dress. It was just as well. She spent long minutes finishing the driedfruit bread, chewing slowly, sipping her tea.

It was night. She was in a tent. There were shouts and rough laughter beyond the tented walls. Within, the furnishings were garish and opulent, filled with the loot gathered over weeks and moons, maybe whole suns of pillaging. Bara could not look at the flashing things, goblets and caskets, statues and furniture, busts and cabinets, all stacked and put together in haphazard disarray, showing no eye for value, let alone taste. It seemed all that mattered was that it flashed and looked a fortune, though most of it, it had to be said, probably cost so much in gold.

She had luckily managed to arrange her Order’s flight such, that they could take away what was sacred. Bara still recognised those artefacts equal to the ones she had tended to for so long: bowls and plates engraved with the Seal, reserved for Solstice and Midsun, now spoiled forever by the unsanctified touch of the heathen hordes. They were from other Sanctuaries, other Shrines, three at least by the number. Bara looked away.

She had stopped crying and the terror had receded to something dark and ever-present. Whoever it was the leader threw her to did not do what the stories said such men did. He threw her onto a horse instead and rode with her somewhere for at least an hour by the clock. She had managed to run away when he stopped the horses to drink, the days were always hottest before the sun began to set. She managed by pleading to release her water. The hills were too steep however and he caught her, dragged her back, tied her up and blindfolded her, setting her roughly on the saddle, cursing by the growling she heard. Her whole body was bruised, not to mention the taints she had suffered to her soul.

No man had touched her since she had taken her Oaths. It was a sacrilege for any other than her own persuasion to touch the First of a Sanctuary, for she was the lainar, the Drum and Cymbal of the Gods. By her Their Will was known. And now two had touched her, grabbed her, one even daring to put his mouth on hers, and worse, touching where the Sacred Words were spoken. The horror of it made Bara silent with tears, yet tied and blindfolded as she was there was nothing she could do to save pray for the Mercy of the Gods.

It was dark when the heathen stopped the horses. Bara could smell fire and cooking and surprisingly, the sound of women’s voices, though their tongue was rough and their laughter like cackling. The smell of horses was distinct in the air, and the clink of a hammer on metal could be heard. She was plucked off the horse and dragged somewhere, the heathen not caring when she stumbled and fell flat on her front. She was set on her feet forcefully and pulled into somewhere closed. Only after the rope was untied could she remove the blindfold and see where she was.

It was a large tent, separated into two spaces by wide velvet folds, exquisite Wara carpets setting out the floor. Imp-lights glowed in various corners, windlights swaying from the tent poles. There was a chaotic mix of chairs to one side, their legs and frames battered, but their making of high quality. One was even an eating couch, the covering still ivory white, probably San silk, the blackwood frame beset with tortoiseshell, making the entire piece exquisite in its elegant simplicity. It was probably stolen from one of the grand mansions set on fire in the wake of the hordes’ destruction. Bara was surprised they did not sell it to the greymerchants, who had neither honour nor loyalty, and fared trade with anyone and anything. From what she had heard, the longchair would gain a great price with them.

The rest of the first part was carpet, strongboxes, small caskets and large cabinets, statues, busts, tall candleholders of Zerasin silver set in great halls of ceremony, and two breathtaking Xuyan vases, tall to a man’s waist, loot upon loot piled and stacked upon each other without care, aligning the tent’s walls from front to back to center. The other part, shielded by heavy crimson velvet, was a clustered space as well, dominated by a wide bed, laden with opulent covers and cushions, patterned like peacock feathers, probably robbed off the caravanserais, for none other owned such cloth.

Bara stayed in the part with the chairs. She found water in a heavy jug made of silver and gold. It was of such vulgar lavishness it had to be from one of the Trade Houses who liked to flaunt their ungodly wealth. She barely managed to fill the matching wash basin with water, but she succeeded. Her dress was soiled, her veil in tatters, but one end had somehow managed to stay clean. She used that to get rid of the worst and maybe wipe away some of the defilement. She washed her arms and legs and neck and face thricefold, wishing for blesséd wine to clean her mouth but that was for naught now. Finally feeling somewhat clean, Bara tried to discern where she was. In the silence of the tent, she could hear the sounds of the camp, for it had to be a camp, fhārch never lived in houses. The sounds were the same as before, voices in that rough tongue, cackling laughter, metal clinking, the whinny and stamp of horses.

Bara finally managed to sit down and calm her shaking hands after asserting that there was no means of escape. She had tried to step out and lances had crossed right in front of her. She had sounded out each tent-wall and always heard that rough tongue close by. Someone had brought her food and drink, a servant no more than a boy, silent and cunning by his eyes, his skin coloured deeply by the sun, though his eyes were light like grass. It was said their blood was weak and so their eyes faded, showing the colours of water and saplings, but to see it was still a surprise. The boy looked at her blatantly for a moment before rushing out again. Bara did not know what to think of it. She hardly saw the young unless on Solstice and Midsun when the peasants filled the olive grove to be receive the Blessing.

There was wine and roasted meat and bread and even grapes. Bara ate the grapes, they were from the soil, and so straight from the Gods. She touched neither the wine nor the bread and meat. They were not sanctified, and even if she had for hunger’s sake, she would probably have thrown it all up again, the fist in her stomach was clenched tight.

Bara sat and waited, doing her best to keep her mind focused with prayer. There was nothing she could touch to start a fire, since none of the things around her were purified and she could not touch the naked coals glowing in the coal stove with her bare hands, she had never learned that holy practice. Thus she sat on the unblemished silk of the longchair, held her hands in her lap, her veil covering her hair, soiled though it was, and prayed for steadfastness and guidance and the Mercy of the Gods.

She could not say when the noise began. It was first a rumble that disturbed the Silence she had found herself in, for even in this heathen place the Gods would See her and grant her Peace. The rumble became thunder and suddenly the whole camp was filled with hoofbeats, shouting, and wild cries, jubilant and coarse. Bara felt how the shaking began, how it took hold of her limbs and even clenching her hands to fists would not stop it. They were here. And if they were here, so was their leader. Unable to sit any longer, Bara got to her feet. She would have to do something, anything. She could not let him touch her again. She searched the haphazard clutter about her for something that she could defend herself with, and finally found a dagger among the loot, a long straight thing in an exquisite scabbard, it’s blade sharp enough to cut a hair. She sat with it hidden behind her back, unsheathed. She would defend herself to the last, even if it meant destroying her mortal self.

Only then did Bara realize she could have done just that already, but it was too late to cleanse herself with water and ashes and say the necessary prayers. To bring herself to the Plains now would be a pointless waste of her living blood, for it would be like throwing the Drum and Cymbal into the Fire rather than laying it to rest so that one day it may sound again. Bara was at once furious and terrified, furious at her terror, for it had clouded her senses and made her blind to an honourable escape. And terrified, for the horde had returned and only the Gods knew what would happen next.

January 27, 2025

Why is it called genre fiction?

Genre: Fantasy, maybe even High Fantasy? Swords are involved.

Yes, I am experimenting again.
This is from an ancient WIP that I dug up some time ago and now it’s spawning more and more pages.

Which is why this is a first try, a draft, an attempt.
It’s a little dark. I blame January, this January specifically, which has lasted 157 days and counting. Nevertheless, we persevere.

If you like this attempt, please drop a like. Most of all: thanks for reading! j. d.

Photo by Francesco Paggiaro on Pexels.com

The Cup and the Sword (Part 1)

The wars had shattered the Lands.
They raged like a bloodthirsty beast that escaped the Nine Hells.

The battles had reached the Plains of Inan, their beauty no longer existed. Treks of refugees fleeing the Beast’s hunger could be found trailing out to the nearest ports, and when those were closed to the next port, and the next, and the next, until all ports were filled with the fleeing.

The refugees were feared and hated, many were murdered or enslaved during their escape. Deserters and soldiers with horrible wounds fled as best they could. Bands of mercenaries terrorised the high roads. The towns’ laws were severe, villagers perpetually suspicious, and the peasants became skilled in defending themselves.

The Lands were cursed, and even the Heavens knew.

The weather stopped its natural course. It either rained for weeks or no rain could be seen for days and days. There was no relief from one or the other, but the Beast, the Beast raged on.

They were a group of many. They were different in station and making, but equal in their decision to leave. It was harder to do it alone. It took some time until the ranks and hierarchies were fixed, but once all knew their place, they could do as they intended and leave the Fields, slip away unseen, and hopefully escape the Beast for good.

They marched at night and slept by day. They stole themselves past walls and gates by the tricks and cunning they had learned, never staying longer than two sunsets in a town or settlement.

Over the days and weeks they began to be loyal to each other. Certain rules were set, unspoken rules. If money was made, it was shared like their rations. And they stayed together, splitting only into groups of threes and fours if necessary. Some wanted to join them but were refused. Too dangerous, too insane. Others could not stay, their soul restless, their eyes searching the horizon. Those left in the dark of night to remain unbound and were rarely seen again.

It was raining. It had been pouring for days. Gav had given up trying to get dry. There hadn’t been a shed for leagues. His horse was as exhausted as he. His weapons were probably rusted. He no longer cared what he was or where he was. All he wanted was someplace dry.

An odd shape appeared at the horizon, dark and lopsided. Gav hardly understood what it was, but the horse did. It stopped inside the shed, the door was hanging off its hinges. Gav slid out of his saddle and fell. There was no reason to get up. There was no rain. That’s all that mattered.

It was still raining. The exhaustion had left his limbs somewhat and now what Gav was mostly aware of, was that he was wet through. Something needed to be done. He would have to remove his clothes. But for that to make sense he would need a fire. Fire. He would need wood for a fire. Gav got to his feet. There was more to the shed than just hay. There was a kind of palisade and hidden corners. He could check there.

He found enough wood to start a fire. It took long, his hands were numb and clumsy. It was nothing to the Bogmarshes of Jirigan, though. He shivered. Finally, the fire was lit. He crouched at it, warming his hands. The rain looked silver in its light. It poured in sheets, soaking the soil until what grass was left would start to rot. Nothing could be seen beyond the broken door except the grey rise and fall of land. No one was on the roads, they had found shelter long ago.

Piece by piece, Gav peeled off his clothes. The Fireguard and chainmail were heaviest. He’d stopped with the unwieldy gambe suns ago and kept to his Southern pourpoint that was sturdy enough. Then there the tunics and all the leathers. Finally, he was bare. The wounds had healed, nothing festered. The scars would remain but that was to be expected. He held his feet out into the rain after removing his boots. It would take at least a day until they dried. The smell lessened after a while. He wished it wasn’t necessary, but with water falling free from the sky, he took the cake of soap he still had, and stepped out. The rain was cold, the wind colder, but at least he could wash the grime off his skin. He watched the fire, to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating. It was necessary to wash, though, you never knew what could grow if you didn’t. He had seen some disgusting things.

Gav shook himself like a dog once he was in the shed again. If the Sainted Plains existed, then it was that warmth on his skin. The air was dry, the ground was dry, and there was a fire, with only the sound of rain to accompany it.

Gav found a log and used it as a stool. He sat naked before the fire, using the pot he had to fill with rainwater and make hot appleseed tea, the satchel had stayed dry under the oilskin. He still had some driedfruit bread and salted meat and a few radishes. He rationed everything carefully and ate in blissful silence while the rain poured on before him, the fire crackling brightly. It was a miracle the roof had held so long. He had no mind to thank anyone save what luck he still had.

The fire eventually became so hot, Gav had to turn his back to the flames so as not to bake his whole front. He searched the shed sipping his tea. It was empty of tools. There was a mound of hay, not too old and mouldy by the fact that the horse was eating it. Nothing dripped through the roof. Behind the palisade there was more dry wood. If he rationed right, he could stay here until the rain stopped and the sun started scorching the countryside again. He would have to collect water, but that could wait. It wouldn’t stop for another two days.

The horde stood before her, there were enough to crowd the olive grove. Blades glinted in the sun, horses pawed the grass and dirt. The chink of metal sounded through the silence. Their leader was already on the first terrace, the stone blinding white in the sun. He stepped closer, setting foot on the High Vesta, breaking Holy Law by his very presence. If they were here, now, the guards of the gate were dead, or had fled to the others in the High Hills. She had stayed with a few to defy this sacrilege. These were not the Coasts. A Sanctuary was never left unattended. The Gods would not forget.

Now they were here, the dust had settled, revealing them. They looked dark and menacing and their leader stood on the white terrace leading to the High Vesta, towering, his bloodied blade unsheathed, his boots and tunic, his arms and face streaked with dirt and blood. There was hair, it was long and filthy. All that identified him as a man were the eyes, for they were clear, not mad with demons as she expected. They were clear, discerning. Ruthless. He shouted something right then, his bark echoing in the silence. He barked again, and again, the echo fading into silence. Nothing moved in the heat, no sound was made. He searched the portico, his pitiless stare seemed to cut into the very stone. His men became restless. There were some with strung bows, scanning the façade. The horses moved, the metal flashing sharply. He fixed the High Vesta with ruthless eyes and moved to step forward. Bara stepped out of the shadows into the light.

She stopped at the top of the broad, white stairs. She saw their surprise, the bows lowered a little. They had not expected this. She had commanded the guards to stay out of sight, she did not trust the fhārch to keep their arrows knocked if they saw them. Their leader was four steps below, yet still almost to her eye. He too was surprised, but it did not last long. He stared at her once she stood still, his gaze roving of her like a wolf sighting fresh kill. Bara wanted to cover herself, shield herself from it. She knew not to show weakness or fear. She was dressed as was her due, in the white cloth and gossamer veil of the First of her Order, the veil embroidered with gold, like the seams of the white cloth. She wore the jewellery that denoted her station: gold earrings in the shape of the Seal, the gold necklace with links of the Seal, and the golden ring on the middle finger of her right hand. Bara stood as she was before the creature, saying nothing, enduring the shameless gaze as calmly as she could, a gaze that would have cost others their eyes first and then their life, but that was for naught now.

He said something, a bark she did not understand. Bara forced herself to keep still, to not give into the urge to flee. None should say they had relinquished this holy ground willingly. These were not the Coasts. The Gods were still among them. He eyed her again. He wanted something, but what it was she did not know, and he had the sense to understand that. He barked something, still staring at her. There was movement behind him and one of his men, just as filthy as he, began walking up the steps though he stopped at a bark by the leader. They exchanged sounds. Bara detected some she understood. The leader said something more then looked at her before stepping up two further stairs, coming so close Bara wanted to step back. But to do so would show her fear and none should say she had cowed before a fhārch, never mind the dirt and blood, the smell of it filling her nose.

‘You here the mistress.’

His voice was like gravel. By his eyes she saw that he knew it was not rightly spoken. To acknowledge it, to even misunderstand, Bara knew, would mean her immediate death.

‘I am the First of this Sanctuary.’

Her voice did not waver, thankfully. There was another barking exchange, his ruthless eyes fixed on her. Bara understood some words. He was asking something about amounts. His man obviously knew to speak. The barking ended.

‘How many.’

‘We are few.’

‘How many.’

‘Twenty-six.’

‘Women.’

He grinned and Bara felt ice slice into her. It was like facing a wolf baring its teeth for the kill.

‘Twenty-five men.’

She had forced her Order to leave, though they had cried and begged her to join them or at least let them stay, but Bara knew, she knew what was approaching. They thought she had not heard, but she knew the stories and commanded their flight. They would not disobey her. They were safe in the High Hills now, fleeing to the King, while she stayed behind. She was the First. It was her duty to stay when all else deserted, never mind what was approaching. The Order would remain intact, for she had trained Niria well. What else she lacked, Niria would learn in time, while she, Bara, would face these demons as duty demanded. A Sanctuary was never left unattended. The Gods would not forget such sacrilege.

‘You twenty-six.’

He was no longer grinning. He stared at her, as if searching her for a lie. She stared back. They were all beyond his and his horde’s reach, safe in the High Hills, possibly already under the King’s command. He understood this, she could see it. He looked her up and down again, and it was a different look, one she did not know. He moved then, as quick as a snake, and before she knew it he held her face roughly with his hand. The shock was severe. No man had touched her since she took her Oaths. There was the zip of an arrow and an agonized cry behind her.

‘Tell men stay.’

He was crushing her jaw in his hand, his eyes cold as steel. He would spill her blood right here if she did not stop the men, the bloodied blade was still in his right, unsheathed.

‘Linus! Erius! Stay away!’

Her voice pitched as she shouted, betraying her fear. There was a horrible moment of suspense. Then something moved but the leader moved as well. He lifted the filthy blade, blood crusted on the deadly steel, a command as it seemed to keep his men away. He scanned the portico quickly, a razor sharp glance. He could probably see more in one heartbeat than others in an hour’s time. He turned his attention back to her. Nothing happened for the time it took for a heart to beat and a body to breathe. Then he touched her lips with his thumb, roughly. Bara wanted to shout for the men but he stopped it when he pulled her down to him and planted his mouth on hers, the reek of sweat, dirt, and blood overwhelming as he forced his tongue into her mouth, the taste of it sudden and revolting.

Bara could endure only so much. She gathered all her strength and pushed herself away. Her hand flew the next moment and struck his cheek in a loud slap. It was hard enough to turn his head. Immediately, she heard the slicing sound of unsheathed swords. He barked something, but Bara didn’t wait to see what it meant. She ran but was caught by her wrist, yanked back, and thrown down the steps into something hard and solid. Hands grabbed her, men’s hands, keeping her from fleeing. More barking followed and Bara lost her head. She screamed for Linus and Erius, senseless with terror, as someone picked her up and dragged her away, the sound of metal and horses growing to thunder, the rush and trample of boot-clad feet reverberating through the heat as the horde charged across the white terrace, past the High Vesta, and stormed the holy quiet of the Sanctuary.

March 12, 2015March 16, 2015

true genius

I wrote this some time ago, during one of those bad moments when the realisation that I just was really truly absolutely ohmygoodness definitely not there yet was very real. Ah, but the great thing about great writers is that, never mind how they make you feel like last week’s left overs, writing-wise, they also help you know that it is possible to do better, be better, try your best. Reading their writing is, next to the great story, also this lovely gift: somewhere, somehow, someone was able to touch that thing that is divine and turn it into perfect word-gold. Terry Pratchett was one of them. Dear Sir (he was knighted), you’ll be sorely, sorely missed. You made so many people laugh and think and feel and laugh again so many times, the world has really lost a true genius today. Rest in Peace. Or as the Librarian would say:
Ook!

…

Gosh, if I could only come up with something like Überwald, Bess Pelargic, The Agatean Empire, 71-hour Achmed or the Octarine Grass Country. Or simply the Anthropomorphic Personification of the Ultimate Certainty, the Grim Reaper a.k.a. Mr. Door. Terry Pratchett is a genius, a real and true genius, though I still think Rincewind is complete and utter twerp. The Night Watch with Commander Vimes and Carrot Ironfoundersson + rag-tag band of misfits and miscreants, the Witches of Lancre + kingdoms and villages, Ms Aching and the Nac Mac Feegles, the University faculty + Librarian, and all the city Guilds + C.M.O.T. Dibbler, Mr Lipwig, Ms Dearheart and whatever new Scheme Moist von is up to, and then, of course, the Patrician with ever resourceful and loyal Drumknott, they’re all breathtakingly, mind-bendingly, side-splittingly fabulous – but Rincewind just puts me off. He really really really annoys me. The only great thing about Rincewind is The Luggage (Sapient Pearwood! Imagine! The madness! The magnificence!). Barely managed The Colour of Magic, and only because I sat through that ghastly mash-up of a movie. Afterwards I had to read it. Rincewind is that character who just makes you want to reach into the book and slap people, meaning him. Though some of the scenes with him in it are utter hilarity.

…

Oh and one more thing: Really, the Luggage. The Luggage. I dare you to come up with something as hilariously insane as the Luggage. Go on. Try it. I shall sink my reading teeth into it, promise.
j.d.

December 15, 2014May 16, 2020

the royal line

England, 1465

‘Run,’ she said. ‘Run, Lucrese, run!’ And Lucrese picked up her skirts and ran, ran into the dark that rose high into the night, the forest with its welcoming trees, ran and ran and ran, hearing the screams behind her, the shadows flickering high before her, the torches so ominous with their blue flames. The Royal Line had found them, the Auditors had come. Lucrese ran behind a wide tree trunk, stopped and turned around. Yes, they had come. Their blue torches flaming high, dragging Mother, Father, William, Thea, even young Merla, dragging them to the eastern wall. She could hear the clank of chains, she could see how the hooks were lowered. One Auditor, covered entirely in black, unrolled a scroll and was reading aloud, proclaiming the treason her family had been found guilty of, ‘fraternizing with the blood enemy’, ‘engaging with Enchanters’ and ‘soliciting Sangín’. But Lucrese knew this was all lies. All Father did was invite one of the Selda to speak of what potions were possible to heal the Curse. And the Sangín, they had lived peacefully side by side for generations. Even her great-grandmother knew of no strife between them. Yet the Auditors were here, dressed in that ominous lightswallowing black, reading out the crimes Father and Mother apparently committed. Lucrese knew she should run further into the forest, hide deeper, never be seen, but she could not leave. She had to see, to know, to understand just what was being done to her family even though she knew what would happen now, she knew, she knew, she could hear Mother’s cries and Father’s furious shouting, for he knew he had done no wrong, no wrong at all.

And so Lucrese stood and watched as her mother, her father, her brother and sisters were chained to the eastern wall of their homestead, how the first Auditor declared they were to be executed in the name of the Law for high treason against their blood and kin, for Lucrese knew the Royal Line saw itself as the Lords and Kings of all Nightwalkers. And so she stood and waited in horror, tears filling her eyes, for in greatest despair even a Nightwalker could cry. And she stood and waited and watched as the sun began to rise, the shadows falling, falling, burning so slowly, such agony, wisps of smoke rising from her parent’s heads, Mother cried, Father cursed and the children stared up in horror at the encroaching sun, screaming for their dear lives. Lucrese stood and watched and saw the Auditors take out long dark oblongs that they raised high – a tug, a blinding light, and sunlight flashed hotly off the mirrors. Lucrese ducked in time. Slowly she raised herself, careful to stay in the dark, the only place where she could see beyond the shadows into the light. And there, right there, lined up against the eastern wall of their homestead, were five heaps of ashes, smoking in the sun.

* * *

Cornwall, 2010

10 days to Winter Solstice
203^rd year

Finally, some time to write and think. It’s done now, the Whelp is in the cellars, watered and fed, thought Mr Gellers down the road’s starting to give me weird looks. We might have to change our supplier.

Anyway, now, finally, I can actually sit down and just – I wish I could shout and scream and box Gav’s ears for his unbelievable stupidity. I told him it was an idiotic thing to do, but oh no, Mr Gavin C. Destrian himself had to show them the Sangín are real. I keep on telling him: the Aveugle are silly people. They only believe what they can touch and feel, what their little eyes can see. And even then they’ll start arguing. But no, Gav had to show them. He apparently was sick and tired of this talk as if our world doesn’t exist. I told him to be patient. A hundred years ago, that Potter woman would have been put behind bars for sorcery. Not to mention what would have happened during The Dark. Small steps, I said, you need to give them time. They’ll get to it, surely. Maybe in three generations to come, but it’s not like we can’t wait. Two hundred three and everyone still thinks I’m a teen. Mum’s stopped arguing, they think we’re sisters, and as for Gav. Well, I told him. I told him, don’t do it. The Sangín around here are not safe, they like to terrify people, Aveugle especially. But oh no. And now we have an Aveugle in the house, and she’s genuinely Bitten.

She’s very shocked. Spent the first week crying – when she wasn’t trying to rip our throats out . That Containing Spell Gran found in Romania back in 17-whatever really works. Probably even a full grown Sangín couldn’t break it, not that I’d ever try it out, unless I absolutely had to. I do feel sorry for her though, young Mel. Annabelle Lowry, but everyone call’s her Mel. And she didn’t even want to go, Gavin coaxed her to – probably why he feels like a stinking heap of dragon dung right now. I told him. The Sangín here are Not. Safe. But oh no. He knew better. They had to know. And now young Mel’s in our cellar so that she won’t rip out our throats by the merest irritation.

I think that’s the hardest part, acquiring unbreakable self control in so short a time. Never getting provoked. Holding yourself together to the very end. Until even the very last chain burst and suddenly you have a full grown werewolf on your hands. I told him. I really told him. Gav’s an Apprentice, he could never have kept the Containing Spell up so long. I told him. Even Mum told him, and Mum usually lets him get away with everything. Mum’s been awfully quiet actually. She hardly speaks to him, she just brews the potion and cuts the meat so that the poor thing won’t choke. She says nothing. A lot of nothing. A whole bookshelf and library full of nothing. I think it’s driving Gav mad. If Mum’d at least shout and scream, even curse him, I think he’d be relieved, but Mum doesn’t say anything.

It’s very hard for her though, young Mel. I can only imagine how it’s like, understanding that from now on, she’s one of the Sangín. It’s why I’ve been so busy. Mum’s been making me write letters to the Elders, and when I’m not writing, I’m making introductions all round. I’ve been up and down the Five Clans just to make sure nobody starts a war over this. Mum insisted I take Gav with me, I didn’t think it was wise, you never know how Nightwalkers might react to this, but they’ve been very civil, considering. Granted, Gav doesn’t say a word. He just stands there and lets them shout at him. At least they understand it’s done now, and the Elders are going to contact the Aveugle. Young Mel’s parents have already contacted their police. Gav and all his Aveugle friends lied very well, saying Mel got lost while they ran to the jeep. They’ve sent search parties into the woods, naturally they found nothing, Mum already went back and cleaned up the blood, you can’t have the parents terrified. Sensitive as Mel is now, she’ll feel her family’s fear and she’s already nervous enough. Nerves of steel is what a Sangín needs, at least that’s what Arrag says. He still comes to see me, brings me the paste once a week. The scars will remain, but they’ve healed. At least my clothes cover the most of it, though I can’t do low necklines any more. A pity, but I guess that is a small price for being alive at all.

7 Days to Winter Solstice
203^rd year

Gran’s in France again, someone’s broken into another vault. Tynne Edvan came to ask her to join the Déblay. Why do they always do this? How can anyone be so insane? The Royal Line has died out, they cannot be resurrected, and thank all the Stars, Gods and Spirits for that. Who would want them back? They’d never tolerate the Balance and then it would be like the Old Days and Arrag could never come and give me the paste. Tuilen and Janic would not be allowed to live together, in fact, they’d probably execute Tuilen for blood treason. Not to mention everyone else. Lucius. Meredith. Gwendolynn. Cedric and the John brothers. Leonid and Katelyn. They’d basically have to go into hiding. A Sangín and an Enchanter, united? The Royals would burn their house down with all of them inside by the mere mention. Every Sangín would get the silver cup, every Nightwalker in the Five Clans would be sunlit, and we Enchanters would be on the run again, forever escaping the Auditors who saw nothing in us than slaves. I don’t know why anyone would want the Royal Line back, no one would ever be able to live in peace again. Who are these madmen?

Anyway, young Mel is doing a little better now. Arrag already came to call, he was with Braig this time so we could not talk. Mum did the formalities, and she went down with Braig to see young Mel. It was awkward, standing in the parlour alone with Arrag. It’s been twenty years now. He still will not look me in the eye. If I touch him, he flinches. He barely accepted the drink I offered. I don’t know how many times I’ve told him that I know he was provoked. I know it. Everyone knows it. And back then I would have said the vows but he would not. He does not trust himself anymore. Even if I knew to brew the potion, maybe one night he might forget to drink it, and then what? Until that night he was convinced it would work, but after… may the Gods curse me, but if ever I see Alda and Ivan again, I will load my soulmaker with all the silver bullets I can get and send them back to the dark pits they belong to. Arrag was the best of them all and they just – broke him. Just like that. The Royal Line would have been so proud of them.

Anyway. Mum said Braig was satisfied. He will send Leonid to come after Winter Solstice to help. The Lupena have already been contacted, they will take Mel into the Fold once she is used to the bloodlust and knows how to control it. None of us want another Gerem – Gods, what a disaster. Ten Aveugle dead, and the 11^th so mauled they had to be merciful and let him pass as well. At least the Elders could convince the Aveugle officials that he was killed in self defence. The first time in decades that all Sangín-Clans joined together and went on a Hunt. They must have known the fault was entirely theirs. To let a Bitten Aveugle join the Fold without any safety valves… madness.

It’ll be another full moon tomorrow by the way, Gav’s already nervous. Last time young Mel mauled two cats and a dog. Had to bury them quick and explain the neighbours there’s been a very careless car-driver about. Gav is not happy. He said, ‘She was the nice one.’ Well, all I can say is that we Enchanters can’t have enough nice Sangín around.