“That is not how I conduct business, Dihsaad. You see, to me it is important that my enemies know precisely what mistakes they made before they die. Call it an act of charity. At least they may enter the afterlife a little wiser. Now, malthrope, what you need to understand is that you were never truly my match. You—look me in the eye when I talk to you!” He screamed, slapping Lain across the face.
Lain merely kept his eyes on the horizon. Watching . . . waiting . . .
“I am going to tell you one last time, malthrope. Look me in the eye when I speak to you, or I will make sure this death drags out for days.”
Squinting his keen eyes against the sun and its glare on the sea, Lain watched as the sails of the ship carrying Sorrel crossed the line of buoys. His bloodied and bruised face pulled into a weak grin.
“What could you possibly have to smile about?” Duule growled.
“You are out of time. She's on her way.”
Duule's brow furrowed in confusion. In a blur of motion, Lain's foot darted up, striking the pommel of the sword and sending it twirling out of Duule's grasp and skyward. The heel came down with punishing force on the foot of the man restraining him, allowing him to pull his right arm free and deliver a lightning strike to the throat of the other swordsman. He then brought the elbow back and drove it into the gut of the first swordsman. Freeing the other arm. He reached out and plucked the descending sword from the air and, with two well-placed swipes, ended the henchmen. Duule tried to run, but a quick thrust of the blade split his heart. Dihsaad made it a few more steps before Lain closed the gap and, in one strike, separated his head from his shoulders.
And so it ended. Not with a stirring speech or a thrilling duel. Such are the things of stories and legend, but this was an act ill-suited for such things. Such are the acts of heroes, but Lain was no hero. He ended it as he had been taught to end it, the way an assassin would: first with deception, then with efficiency. Taking lives, even vile ones, was not something to be enjoyed or savored. It was a task to be completed, and now it was done.
There was nothing left but to watch as the ship carried its precious cargo over the horizon. When the last glimpse of its mast had slipped from view, he turned his back to sea. He had to return to his purpose. It was all there was now.
Epilogue
With the death of Duule, his empire swiftly devoured itself. A hierarchy of scoundrels and thieves scrambled to seize what power it could. It was a profitable time for Lain, as men and women across Tressor suddenly found that those previously too fearful of Duule's wrath to take action were now only too eager to settle scores. In a few months he completed more than a dozen jobs, thinning the ranks of Tressor's underworld considerably before things finally settled into a new stability. It was enough to earn him a small fortune, and with it he managed to convince some of the slaves he'd freed in the past to purchase a whole plantation and everyone on it. Fittingly, he chose Jarrad's land.
Seeing the place that had at once been his home and prison freed of its yolk forever stirred something in Lain's soul. With Sorrel gone, this bit of land and the suffering it had brought were the last real connections he had to Tressor. Now he had destroyed it, broken its chains. What it symbolized was gone.
He thought about what he'd seen in his travels. He remembered the tight, isolated cities of the north, and the way the people dressed in heavy clothing. His purpose would be easier to pursue there. He could pass among the people of that land unrecognized, just another face hidden in the hood of a cloak. Yes. He would go north . . . but before he left, there was one thing that remained to be done.
He made his way back to Delti, to the home of Goldie. The elf was working at his desk as he always was, a single light illuminating the charts and lists. Lain slipped inside silently and spoke the elf's name. Goldie shuddered, but did not gasp or scream, as though he'd been expecting the interruption. He simply opened a drawer and pulled from it a small rag. Lain accepted it.
“She said she knew there was a question you wanted to ask,” Goldie said, “and that the answer was yes. Any idea what that means?”
He nodded.
“Good. Is my debt paid?”
He nodded again. Without another word or even a sound, he slipped back into the shadows, and out into the street. He made his way west, to a hole in a mountain, its walls etched with patterns and its floor scattered with smoothed rocks. He placed the rag reverently beneath one of the stones. Sorrel was gone, but she was safe, and she was happy. His heart would always be with her. It was hers, and it was just as well. Without her, he had no need for it any longer.
His most cherished memory laid to rest in a fitting memorial, he stepped once more into the light and set off for the north. There were slaves to free. There were jobs to be done. There was a purpose to serve. Always.
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That completes the full length novels in this collection, but read on for an additional novella and short story that expand the setting further. And don’t forget, if you’d like to be kept in the loop on future installments to the series, sign up for the newsletter! For books in other settings, check out the complete bibliography at the end of this anthology.
Entwell Origins: Ayna
A Book of Deacon Sidequest
Joseph R. Lallo
Foreword
This story is the first experiment in what may become an ongoing side series for the Book of Deacon setting. Entwell, the setting within a setting where some of the finest wizards and warriors of the world dwell, has captured the imaginations of quite a few readers. The larger than life personalities found there have attracted countless emails and comments asking what the Entwell residents are doing while the rest of the story is going on, and how did each of them find their way to their current positions.
I love to think about such things, so as a project between releases I started jotting down notes and scribbling ideas for an Entwell-centric novella. Part of it was to be separate flashbacks to the history of Ayna, Calypso, and Solomon. Once the Ayna story grew unmanageably large, I decided to spin it off and give it a try as a standalone. Thus, the novella you are now reading was born. It was first distributed as a free gift to my newsletter subscribers, so if you like the story, consider signing up! I produce a few newsletter previews a year, not to mention spreading the news of books as they become available.
CHAPTER ONE
Far in the north of a war-torn world was a forest the size of a small sea. The locals called the place Ravenwood, and though it stretched over much of the icy reaches of an empire called the Northern Alliance, it was home to many things few would imagine might survive in such a frigid place. Sprinkled among the pines and firs were breeds of oak and maple that kept their leaves long into the iciest months. Flowers thought far too frail to last a single frost found places to flourish. Some said magic was to blame, others that nature simply finds a way to thrive in spite of itself, but for those who knew where to look, the truth was undeniable. Honeysuckles, roses, lilies, and more bloomed in defiance of the year-round chill. And wherever these flowers were found, there could be found something still more rare...
On a crisp spring morning, the leaves of an oak stirred. As the crust of frost crackled from a broad leaf near to the trunk, a tiny head peeked out from behind it. It was a fairy, her hair a chestnut brown and her eyes pale lavender. She was young, just a few years of age, though for her race that placed her firmly in adolescence. She blinked at the brightness of the sun and timidly ventured a few steps farther.
For the chilly climate, one would imagine her clothing to be woefully inadequate. She wore a simple dress of pale yellow, fashioned from flower petals pounded into a sort of fabric. It was nearly as light and delicate as the gossamer dragonfly wings fluttering lightly on her back. The dress couldn't have done much to ward off the cold. She tapped forward along the rough bark, her tiny feet bare, yet despite the bite to the air she didn't so much as tremble. To a fairy, the forest held many dangers, but cold was little concern.
Her eyes fixed on the clearing in the distance where her favorite rose bush beckoned to her, promising a breakfast of nectar. Already she could see the lowest flowers rustling, no doubt her family drinking their fill. She glanced to and fro, biting her lip and twisting her face in a mixture of eagerness and uncertainty. When she was satisfied, she buzzed her wings to speed and darted forward. The very instant her feet left the branch, a trilling tone whistled out from a bush at the foot of the tree. The sound might have been dismissed as a particularly complex bird call by most listeners, but for the little fairy it was an angry reprimand, the voice of her father.
"Ayna, you come here this instant!" he chirped in their elegant, lilting language.
He burst out from a nest of leaves and twigs. The nest was tucked away in the thick of a bush at the foot of the tree, hidden such that even the sharpest eyes wouldn't spot it. Anya's father was dressed in a tunic and loincloth of oak leaf, and if human he would have been an imposing figure. His shoulders were broad, his build stout. Though he was no larger than the size of an open human hand, he still towered over the girl when he buzzed up and hung angrily before her.
"Where did you think you were going, little Ayna?" he fumed.
"I was only going to the rose bush for breakfast," she said sheepishly, eyes to her feet.
"Oh, you're heading to the rose bush? I didn't realize you'd plucked me a leaf yet," he said, his tone mocking.
"Father..."
"Perhaps you should pluck me another," he continued. "I'll have that one. Good and dry. It's practically ready to drop on its own."
"Fine!" Ayna said.
She pivoted in air until she was facing the branch and set her eyes on the leaf. Her father buzzed to her side and watched with his arms crossed. Ayna let her hands drop to her sides and tried to gather her mind.
For as long as she could remember, she'd tried to gather the wind to her will. It was a tradition for her race, a rite of passage. On the day a fairy could coax the wind into pulling a leaf from the tree, he or she was considered grown. Mastering the wind, even to that small degree, was enough to help a fairy stay safe. A breath of wind could hide scent. It could confuse predators, foul the flight of birds. Each of Ayna's brothers and sisters had done so by the time they were her age, and thus they were free to explore. Anya had yet to do so, and until she could conjure a breeze at will, she had to remain in the safety of the home tree.
Ayna twisted and turned her mind this way and that, tugging it in the directions she believed might influence the breeze. Alas, she had no way of knowing if she was doing it properly. The cruelest part of this rite of passage was that she would receive no instruction. Fairies had a natural affinity to wind. They were expected to learn to manipulate it in the same way that they learned to fly, or another creature learned to walk. In time, with practice, it would come. Neither her father, her sisters, nor her brothers would utter a word of advice to aid her.
By now she should have learned it. She could sense the wind expertly. If she shut her eyes and let the world fall away, she could feel the flutter of every leaf, the breath of every creature. She could feel the ripples on the stream and the waving of each blade of grass. On the day her youngest brother had plucked his first leaf, she'd known he'd gotten the knack even before he did. The unnatural motion of the breeze as it fell under his control blared in her mind like a trumpet. But she'd not once seen the wind answer her call in the same way. It was like learning to listen but never learning to talk.
For a full minute she tried, and her father waited. Finally his patience ran thin.
"That's enough, Ayna. Back to the tree, where it will be safe."
"But father!"
"Back to the tree!" he growled, a puff of wind swirling from behind him and forcing her back slightly.
Sulking, she did as she was told. He fluttered along beside her as she returned to the branch she'd practically claimed as her own. It was virtually clear of leaves, low enough to be below the canopy but high enough to give a clear view of the forest around her. Sometimes it felt like the view from that branch was the closest she would ever come to seeing the rest of the woods.
"Your mother will bring your breakfast, like always," he said, his voice held carefully even. "We can bear your burden until you are ready."
Ayna shook at the word. Burden. She'd been hearing it more and more as the months rolled on without any hint that she'd found the secret that should have been second nature.
"Ah. Here is your mother now."
A fairy woman approached, a curled rose petal in her hands. Her hair was longer and a shade darker, but at first glance it was clear that in a few years she and Ayna would be virtually indistinguishable. Her dress was the vivid red of rose pedals, and she had an idle smile that faded when she saw Ayna's father's expression.
"What has she done now?" she asked wearily.
"Your daughter was planning to leave the tree."
"Did she pluck a leaf?"
"No," Ayna moped, taking the petal from her mother.
It was filled with nectar. Ayna tipped it back and let the delightful sweetness dance across her tongue. Ayna had heard from her grandfather, who had brought the family to the north before she was born, that the nectar here in Ravenwood was the sweetest he had ever found. It was the only nectar she'd ever known, but she couldn't dream of a better meal. Rose nectar had always been her favorite. Fine was the morning that they were able to drink from the rosebush.
Her mother released a put-upon sigh. "If you can't share in the foraging, at least you should do as you're told. You needn't make things more difficult. Remember your great-grandmother?"
"What if I am like Gram?" Ayna said. "What if I never figure out how to control the breeze?"
"Then you will stay in the tree, and you will watch your nieces and nephews for as long as you are able, like she did," her father said. "And if you do end up like my grandmother, at least you'll be safer."
"Why?"
"Because your great-grandmother was bigger than you, like your father. And do you know what being bigger and stronger does? It gets you noticed. Fairies who fly high get caught by hawks. Fairies with great magic get caught by mages. The way a fairy survives is by not being seen. The small and weak are the best at not being seen, and that makes up for what they lack. It is nature's way. If you never leave the tree, at least we'll never have to teach you about things like elves..."
"But I want to know about elves. I've never even seen one."
"You don't want to know about them. And as long as you don't pluck a leaf, I won't ever have to tell you about the pointy-eared devils," her father said. "Now you stay in the tree. We'll all be back for supper. Try not to make any trouble."
With that, her mother and father flitted off for the day's foraging. Ayna was left to sit, watch, and blindly try to capture her birthright in the conjuring of the breeze.
#
Ayna lay on her branch, eyes gazing into the distance as the full moon painted dappled patches of light upon the icy ground. As she watched the night drift by, the rest of her family sound asleep in the bush below, her stomach churned and grumbled. It had been a poor day's forage, and since she'd not had to spend any energy gathering nectar, Ayna once again got the smallest share of what they'd found. She understood why it had to be that way, but it didn't make the hunger pains go away.
She always looked forward to the peace of the night. A long day of foraging made for a very sound sleep. Her father was nearly as skilled at feeling the wind as she, and as a result whenever she drifted away from the tree he would come darting back to see that she returned to the branches. While he slept, though, there was freedom. If she was careful to keep quiet, she could steal a few precious minutes of exploring without the others finding out. She was always cautious. Though she'd not plucked a leaf and therefore had not been told of all of the dangers beyond the tree, she knew all too well the sorts of things that could make a meal of even a skilled fairy. Her uncle had been caught by
an owl, and not a year ago her grandmother had been snapped up by a fox.
Her stomach rumbled some more, and her eyes lingered on the rosebush in the distance. A voice in her mind challenged her. Surely she could make it to the bush and back. They never drank it dry, because in a storm it was the only food close enough to reach safely. If she could flit out to the bush and back she'd be able to take the edge from her hunger, and maybe see a few new sights. It was farther than she'd ever gone on her own before, but not by much...
Ayna stood and moved with swift care along the branch, pacing out to the very end. She buzzed off toward the bush before her fluttering anxiety and better sense could change her mind, the thought of the sweet nectar and a full stomach driving her forward. It didn't take more than a moment for her to reach the first bloom. One by one she darted from flower to flower, trying to find one heavy with nectar. If it was particularly full, she could probably take a bigger sip without it being missed. Sadly, most had only begun to refresh themselves. She made do with dabbing a finger into each flower and licking it clean.
When she'd taken as much as she dared, she found her stomach felt just as empty as before. For an instant, she considered venturing out and foraging on her own, but she banished the thought. Her family had done their best and found little. There was little hope that she'd do any better without even being taught how to do it. She stuck her face into a bloom for one last lingering whiff before returning home, but a strange scent mixed with the flower's aroma seized her mind. It was subtle, but she knew it wasn't her imagination. She raised her head and floated up into the air, taking a long whiff of the breeze.
The scent was intoxicating. It was the warmest, sweetest thing she'd ever smelled. Her body almost moved of its own accord, facing into the breeze and flitting toward the wonderful aroma. Distantly, she knew that she was moving quite far from her tree, but she knew that she would be able to find it again, and this was too much of an opportunity to let slip. In a thicker part of the forest, she found the source of the heavenly smell.
The Book of Deacon Anthology Page 196