by Brandon Barr
She held his eyes for a moment longer, then turned without another word. She walked stiffly toward the large doors at the opposite end of the hall. With effort, she held back her emotions. Everything she had dreaded was taking place.
A voice rumbled loudly behind her: “And if you come to the hall again,” called Valcere, “you’ll wait your turn with the others. Line cutting is a vice of children, not adults.”
There were a few stilted laughs, and she willed herself not to turn back and lash out, instead to keep her feet moving forward. She’d lost her place at the Hold, her apprenticeship under Katlel, and so much of her dignity under Valcere’s bristling words—she’d had enough. She wanted to turn into a bird and escape. To soar through the twisting tunnels and burst free of this cold-hearted mountain.
Unwanted tears blurred her sight.
Truly now, she was a woman without constraints. What that would mean, her heart was just beginning to whisper to her.
_____
SAVARAH
As Savarah watched Meluscia leave, she considered the wide range of emotions her sister held bound up inside. Savarah could pull her sister’s frustrations apart in the same way she could tear parts of a brain out of a dead girl’s head and organize them by color or shape, but the thought of imagining herself feeling what Meluscia felt was like untangling a spider’s web.
Meluscia had striven to become Luminess ever since the sunweed blight reared its unpleasant symptoms in her mother and father. She sincerely cared about the kingdom and its people. Their troubles weighed on her face and tore at her heart. It was that sensitivity that Savarah lacked which she saw gushing out of her sister, raging like a torrent, nearly uncontrolled—forcing her to create a phantom to make love to her, when she knew she could never have affection as Luminess. Love was intriguing and strange, completely weakening the one that embraced it, just as her master taught. And Savarah could see how those heartfelt emotions could be truly dangerous. How easily they could turn into something dark. Even murderous. Especially if that kind of soft, fleshy heart could ever seep its way into her own chest.
But Savarah did share one thing in common with Meluscia. Passion. That, unlike mere love alone, gave one power.
Meluscia slipped through the crack in the door like a rabbit escaping a fox, and was gone. Savarah returned her attention to the front of the room. Osiiun’s eyes were on her. He sat on the bench beside Valcere. She blinked a message to him, and he responded in kind.
He would be expecting news from Orum, and with the sudden death of Aszelbor, the undercook, his keen senses would be alert to danger.
Her next two moves would be crucial.
Kill Osiiun, her master’s fiercest fighter, before the night was out. Before news spread to Harcor that Aszelbor had died.
Then she would ride like the wind.
That was the plan, at least. If word escaped to any of the spies that a traitor was on the loose, all surprise would be lost, and her mission would become infinitely more difficult.
The element of surprise had to be maintained, no matter the cost.
_____
MELUSCIA
“You have more courage than most, Meluscia. Don’t lose heart.”
Mairena’s soothing words couldn’t chase away the shock of all that had transpired…all that would soon come to pass.
“I’m sorry,” whispered Meluscia bitterly. “I’m sorry to leave you with that man as your leader.”
She wanted to say so much more, but it would only echo her broken hopes.
I’m sorry I will not have the chance to make peace with the Verdlands. A peace I felt so certain I could get! I’m sorry I’ll be cast from the Hold, unable to share my food any longer. Unable to be an advocate for you and the other servants…all the good people of our realm. Our outpost villages will continue to be pillaged and burned by Nightmares. The men, women and children murdered on our borders will have no reprisals of justice done in their name.
Mairena left at Meluscia’s request. Meluscia needed to be alone, despite her loneliness. She’d spent so much of her life in the solitude of her mind, it was all she knew to do in times of failure.
She again found a cold hollow in the rock passageway, shadowed from the courtiers who occasionally passed along the western tunnel leading to the throne room. Her rapid breaths caught in the cold evening air, then disappeared. A vague pulse shook her vision as each heartbeat pounded in her throat.
Two soldiers walked by the opening of the hollow, unaware of her watching eyes. She looked at each face as it came and went. The desperation she felt now was immense. The voices of her inner life, both fearful and strong, fought for a response.
What do I do now?
You’re going to the Verdlands. You have to fight.
How do I fight?
You’ll find a way. You have to help your people, and the Verdlands.
I’ll be alone.
That’s nothing new.
The shadows cast by the sparse torch light flickered like dying embers against the walls before her. Servants passed, faces briefly illumined before disappearing like ghosts into the dark.
A man neared her rock hollow, his face intimately familiar.
Mica.
In an instant, the fire burning inside changed, as if a crosswind had suddenly assaulted it, and now the flames raged, uncontrolled in a new direction.
The fire was desperate for strength, full of longing.
She took a step out from her hollow and grasped Mica by the arm before he passed. He turned in surprise, then his eyes caught her own, lit by the light of the torches. She drew him toward her with a light tug, back into the darkness. Quickly her hands slid around his back.
A sob shook her and she began to cry lightly on his shoulder. Her confusion and anger were swept away as his arms came around her.
“My Lady, are you alright?” he said, his tone caught between formality and the intimacy of her body so close to his own.
She said nothing for a time, relishing the strength of Mica’s arms enfolding her. In his warmth her crying quieted.
“No,” she finally whispered. “I’m not alright. I need something from you.”
A short moment passed before he asked, “What is it, My Lady?”
She lifted her face to his, their breathing mingling, lips ever so close to touching. Her silence and the hidden space they stood in made plain her desires.
His hand briefly touched the side of her face, then slid to the back of her head where his fingers ran through her hair. Every stroke of his fingers brought life and fire into her blood.
His scent filled each breath she took, his lips hovering so near. Moving closer, slow, hesitant. She ached for the culmination of their touch.
Mica’s movement toward her paused, then he whispered, “My Lady, I can’t.”
“It can be our secret,” she heard herself whisper. “No one will ever know.”
In the quiet, his hand moved up her back. His lips again poised on the verge of touching her own, she wanted to spring at them. Slowly he drew back.
“I’m sorry, My Lady.” She heard him breathe deeply. “I must go. I have an urgent message for your father in the throne room.”
Her heart sank at his words, but her hunger did not abet. She pressed her palms against his solid back, letting him know she was not yet dissuaded.
“Can it not wait but a moment,” she said softly, her fingertips digging lightly against his rough shirt.
He hesitated only briefly. “No. I should go…”
She slid her hands to rest on his hips, no longer hemming him in. “You’ll not find my father in the throne room,” said Meluscia, her thin voice springing from wound upon wound. “He is sick in bed. Valcere sits in his stead.”
Mica’s hands squeezed lightly where they rested on her side. “I’m sorry to hear that. Truly.”
He stepped back into the torchlight, making to leave.
“What is your urgent message?” she asked.
“A Nightmare attack, here at the Hold.”
The words froze her.
“At the Hold? Where?”
“Your father’s back paddock. The royal horses. A night watchman was killed.”
She shuddered, a chill racing the length of her body. “Go,” she said. “Tell Valcere.”
“Yes, My Lady,” he said, delaying only a moment to hold her gaze before turning down the corridor.
She watched him rush away, her emotions in chaos. When he disappeared out of sight, she turned in the direction he had come.
A Nightmare…here?
As she walked, she sensed something had changed. The familiar corridor no longer felt safe, the spaces between lit torches full of ominous shadows.
One thing was now certain in her mind.
Her trip to the Verdlands was more pressing than ever. Her father’s will, and Valcere’s wrath be damned.
Reconciliation between her people and the Verdlands was possible—she felt certain of it.
She had to try to be Monaiella, to break down borders erected in men and women’s hearts. Even if it meant a dungeon would be her ultimate home.
What did it matter? What did home even mean to her now?
As she made the long trip to the lower plateau where the royal horses were kept, her thoughts returned to what had just transpired between her and Mica. He had wanted her. But he had also hesitated. Why?
She sensed the answer. It was more than just the urgent message he’d needed to deliver. His desire for her had been strong. She had felt it. But something had overcome it. Her name was Praseme. And he loved her.
Inside, the flames of desire were now only smoldering cinders. Soon she would leave the Hold. Soon her former life would be cut-off from her. After she set out to the Verdlands, it might never be safe to come to the Hold again. Her future swirled before her, mysterious and dark.
She had needed Mica, now, more than ever.
If he would have only kissed her. A few moments of blissful surrender, his body against hers, the sensual touch of his lips in motion with her own…it would have been just what her soul craved. His kisses drawing out of her a faith in herself. Infusing strength and confidence.
Her imagination blew on the dying embers, stoking them into a small flame.
Somehow the fire had to be satisfied.
This was her last chance to…
She stopped. Her hands pressed against her chest, her fingertips channeling the pulsing within.
My last chance to do what?
---Book Two---
THE BRIDGE
BEYOND
HER WORLD
SONG OF THE WORLDS
BOOK TWO
BRANDON BARR
LOAM
Chancellor,
After my oration in the Hall of Discourse, you asked me what’s become of my strident opposition to the charter. I believe I told you something about a more nuanced perspective.
I feel I must clarify. I am still adamantly opposed to the Guardian charter; however, I’ve come to appreciate your arguments. Too often, I’ve been dismissive of valid points from your side. I blame it on my youthful ignorance.
An honest answer to your question is thus: a woman. A very lovely and intelligent woman has happened to me. Need I say more?
-Prince Damien of the First Quorum, leader of the Opposition Movement, letter to Chancellor Walnof
The majority of Royals are furious the Guardians have chosen your candidates, but the Opposition Movement couldn’t be more pleased. I will maintain my majority stance for a while longer, but I sense momentum is changing in our favor.
When the time is ripe, I’ll be a key blow to the majority when I shift my vote—reluctantly, of course.
Let’s hope your bastard son finds some dirt for us amongst the Guardians.
-Queen Taia
(Letter to Baron Rhaudius)
CHAPTER 1
WINTER
The silence haunted her.
Winter struggled to open her eyes and failed. She felt too weak. Behind her eyelids, a cacophony of emotions fought for answers. Her entire body had been afire with pain, and she hadn’t been able to lift so much as a finger. But, suddenly, the horrific pain was gone. She summoned her strength and felt the fingers on her right hand curl upward. The simple sensation of movement brought enormous relief.
And what of the sounds she’d heard? That awful young captain, Rose, screaming out the farmers’ death sentence, the thundering of horses, and then the terrible noise that cracked open the sky. Her ears still rang faintly from the sound. But now, there was almost complete silence; the kind she only before experienced when entering the woods.
Where were the farmers?
A sobering thought came upon her. Had a battle taken place while she lay unconscious? Was she left for dead, surrounded by the bodies of her friends and neighbors?
And Aven. Where was Aven? Her heart felt sick.
A sound broke through her fears. Footsteps padding along, not far away. Several sets of feet. Three? Four?
Voices. A woman’s commanding tone. Words spoken in a strange accent.
A masculine voice replied to the woman.
More footsteps; they were coming closer.
She tried to open her eyes again, finally succeeding. Piercing sunlight met her, and the padding of the footsteps came to a stop, somewhere close.
“She’s awake,” said the man.
The woman with the accent spoke in return, “Arentiss, go get Alael. Tell him the girl has awoken.”
A pair of footsteps faded away.
“Can she hear us?” came the man’s voice.
“I think so. Winter, can you hear us?” said the woman.
Winter tried to lift her head, tried to raise herself, but the effort was futile, her muscles numb and tingly. Who were these people? How did they know her name?
She heard whispering between the woman and the man, then a startling face appeared overhead. It was a woman, the skin of her face as dark as silt, her clean white teeth shining through a warm smile. The woman’s hair was slate grey with a sprinkling of white, and it was woven neatly into an adornment upon her head.
“Do not worry, your brother is asleep,” said the woman. “My name is Karience. I am the Empyrean of the Guardian order here on Loam.”
Winter stared at her a moment and managed a whisper, “The others? The farmers?”
“They’re asleep, as you were moments ago.”
The sense of mystery and awe Winter had always felt toward the Guardians now churned afresh. Did they possess magical powers? What secret knowledge could lay sleep upon an entire gathering of people?
“Even the horses sleep?” asked Winter.
Karience laughed. “Yes, the horses are using their riders as pillows. Probably we will have to mend more than a few fractured bones. Let’s hope the Baron is in a better mood when he wakes from his procedure. If he would have only taken your pointed advice, we could have arrived as a parade instead of as peacekeepers.”
The tingling in her muscles was wearing off. Winter managed to push herself into a sitting position. Her head swam. It felt as if she’d been lying there a week. She looked and found Aven beside her. His face was relaxed and handsome, even with the blood trails running down his chin. She couldn’t see any harm done by Pike’s sword and wondered if healing the cuts on his face was more magic of the Guardians. Aven was breathing comfortably, as if he was at home in bed, and she were only sneaking in to slip a bracelet under his fingers as she did on occasion. All around the marketplace, bodies lay strewn as if dead.
A man stood beside Karience, younger, perhaps five years older than Winter. Another Guardian. His skin was also strange, but only because it was so fair, especially standing beside the dark Empyrean. He looked at Winter curiously, the slant of his lips betraying amusement. Why? Did he find her disorientation humorous? The thought only deepened her wonder of the Guardians. The scene surrounding her was bizarre. She began to wonder what
would happen if everyone were suddenly to wake.
Karience and the young man wore loose white pants and fitted white shirts. A sigil of a starship bursting through a severed sword shone upon their right breasts. Beneath each sigil was a three color pattern that differed between the two of them. What the colors meant, she couldn’t guess.
It was then she noticed the massive hulk rising from behind the smithworks. It was like a giant bird, with a girth twice the size of the market.
A starship! The sight of it stole Winter’s breath away. The farmers’ tales heard over the years could not have prepared her for this moment. The strength and elegance of the starship’s body reached beyond anything she could ever have imagined. And having landed in a cow pasture, the vessel seemed so enchanting and otherworldly. Much like the two Guardians standing before her.
“Here she is,” said Karience to a bearded man approaching quickly, dressed in clothing similar to hers, though dyed the lightest blue, almost grey, instead of white.
“Winter, this is our Physician, Alael. Do you have any lingering pains?”
“No.”
Alael bent and touched her neck. She felt something tug on her flesh as Alael pulled from her skin a small piece of metal that looked like a tack. He stared at it, as if it were telling him something.
“It was a nasty fall,” said Alael. “You likely wouldn’t have walked again without our intervention.”
“You’re not broken anymore,” said the young man dressed in white beside Karience. “I’m Rueik.” He held out his hand and when she took it, he helped her up onto her feet and steadied her with a hand on her back. “I imagine you’d like to see the ship.”
“Soon enough,” interrupted Karience. “First we wake a few of the others. There’s still Baron Rhaudius's mess to fix.”
Alael bent down beside Aven, his beard brushing Aven’s chest as he seemed to be listening to her brother’s breathing. Then he removed the tack-like thing from Aven’s neck. He immediately began to stir. Winter grabbed his hand.