The Chronicle

by David F. Farris

  Units were scattered throughout the field. Each one practiced a different aspect of archery, from loading and drawing a bow to shooting at targets that seemed an impossible distance away. Bryson gazed down both lengths of the field. A wall stood at either side, and he could barely see the archers lining the tops. Directly across the green was a small wooded area.

  “Where’s Simon?” Bryson asked.

  Peter pointed and said, “The western wall.” He grinned. “He shouldn’t be too difficult to distinguish from the rest of them.”

  Gazing at the wall once more, Bryson saw someone bouncing up and down, frantically waving their hand. Bryson laughed and waved back, until an incoherent order was heard in the distance. The response was a collective drawing of bows from the archers—Simon included. A woman walked slowly behind them, inspecting the stance of each of them, occasionally adjusting an elbow or a head.

  Once satisfied, she shouted another order. An arrow whizzed across the sky before sinking as it lost speed, inevitably striking the sod a mere few dozen feet away from the eastern wall. Now Bryson understood why there were barricades around the perimeter: to make sure no wandering souls fell victim to friendly fire.

  Several other archers were given the same order. Most of them hit the sod within the barricaded area, and Bryson was beginning to think that was the objective. Then one woman let an arrow rip. This time, its flight stayed straight and reached the other side of the field in an instant. Bryson’s eyes widened as the arrow struck halfway up the wooden wall.

  “Wow,” Bryson said.

  “Just wait for it,” Peter said.

  Simon came next. A few of the archers on the ground turned to watch. The woman gave the order, and Simon’s bow emptied. A loud thud came from the east.

  “Look at the top of the opposite wall,” Peter instructed, cheers erupting from the field. “There are human-modeled dummies up there.”

  A dummy directly across from Simon had an arrow in its temple. “What’s the distance between both walls?” Olivia asked.

  “Two hundred and thirty yards.”

  Bryson was shocked. He’d always vouched for Simon’s skill. Heck, he was the reason why Simon had gained an audience with King Vitio and Princess Shelly. But he never could have imagined talent such as this—especially in the short time Simon had been training here. Over two hundred yards with a beeline trajectory?

  “How rare is something like this?” Bryson asked, watching as other archers tried to match Simon’s success.

  “I believe he just turned fourteen,” Peter said. “For someone of that age, it’s rare to the point of never-seen-before. Commander Magnolia Aloi, the woman giving the commands behind them, is one of the few archers who can do what Simon just did.” He paused and chuckled. “But even she couldn’t achieve it until her early twenties.”

  “They’re going to put him in the thick of things as soon as possible,” Olivia said, a hint of disdain in her tone.

  “That goes without question,” Peter replied. “He’ll prove highly useful in this war. You haven’t even seen him on the move ... wending between trees and swinging in the canopies.”

  Unease fluttered around Bryson’s stomach. When he had decided to introduce Simon to the royals, he hadn’t envisioned him risking his life ... at least not so soon. He was still a kid.

  Peter’s gaze fixed itself onto Bryson. He must have realized what plagued Bryson’s thoughts. “He’s only a year younger than Rhyparia was when she became a Jestivan.”

  “And look where that got her,” Bryson muttered.

  Not long after that, Peter returned to the palace, and Bryson and Olivia spent the rest of the afternoon watching the redheaded boy perform flawlessly in every drill. Eventually, Bryson drifted off, his head leaning against his sister’s shoulder ...

  Bryson stood on top of the world. The starry sky swallowed him whole, and the altitude made the chill unbearable and breathing a struggle. What kind of place could create such a sensation?

  Sounds of cracking glass below him brought his gaze toward his feet. He stood on a glass surface, looking down on a room he was very familiar with. Dropping to his hands and knees, he saw the royal princess sound asleep in bed, her pixie cut untroubled by her tossing and turning. His gaze fell to the lump under the blankets—a developing fetus that’d soon enter this beautiful, yet cruel, world. Everything seemed normal. The room was still and peaceful, and Bryson became lost in the serenity of the scene below.

  Then the room’s floor began to open at the center, signaling the platform below had been triggered. Who could that be?

  Curious as to why she wasn’t waking, Bryson glanced to Shelly. Hearing glass cracking again, he looked around. His heart skipped a beat as he realized that it wasn’t breaking glass that he heard—rather, ice creeping along the glass. As a frigid blast shot through his spine, he panicked. The last time he recalled such a sensation had been when he had heard his mother playing the piano for the first time.

  Glancing below, this familiarity proved telling. A head of violet hair entwined with beads of frost stood at the platform’s center. A crown of crystal sat atop her head. Bryson banged his fists against the glass ceiling, screaming to alert Shelly. Why wasn’t she waking up?

  Though Shelly couldn’t hear Bryson’s warning cries, the woman on the platform could. As she was lifted into the room, her head snapped upward, a sinister smile contorting her face. Frost-infused blood seeped from the cuts that lined her neck. Jagged pieces of ice replaced her teeth, making her look more like a beast than a human.

  In an effort to break the glass, Bryson unleashed a surge of electricity from his entire body. He tried this five times, each successive attempt lighting up the night sky, more powerful than the last. Once that proved useless, he figured he could make it to the edge of the ceiling, drop to the balcony, and enter through a doorway. But the ice that had crept along the glass was now halfway up his legs and arms, pinning him down and making sure he was only a spectator to what was about to unfold below.

  Through a kaleidoscope of frozen glass, he saw as the platform connected with the bedroom’s floor. Apoleia strolled across the room until she was next to the bed. Bryson screamed, tears crashing down his cheeks. Wake up!

  Translucent clouds billowed from Shelly’s nose as she slept, unaware of her impending doom. Extending her index finger, Apoleia then flicked it upward. A pillar of ice shot from the floor beneath the bed, obliterating the glass ceiling before coming to a stop in the sky above Bryson.

  Shelly sat in the air, eyelids slightly ajar to reveal a green sliver of iris, skewered by a pillar of ice through her stomach...

  Bryson was jolted awake, his shoulder jostled by Olivia. Blinking the daze out of his eyes, he tried to regain his wits. While he was thankful the nightmare had ceased, he was bothered by the lingering chill it left.

  “Was I fidgety?” he asked. “Did I make any noises?”

  “No,” Olivia said. “You became unbearably cold—even for me. My shoulder felt like it had been dipped into a pit of fire.”

  “I’m sorry,” Bryson said, rubbing his eyes and groaning.

  “What happened?”

  Bryson dropped his forehead into his hands and grabbed a fistful of hair. “I think Shelly was right. This baby is going to be a bigger mental hurdle than I thought.”

  Rubbing her shoulder through her tunic, Olivia gazed out at the field again. After a short pause, she said, “I can only imagine, Bryson. I think about it every hour of every day, and I’m only an aunt.”

  “And the godmother,” Bryson said.

  She smirked, looking back at him. “How about you discuss that with the woman carrying the baby first? I’m sure she has her own sister in mind.”

  He shrugged. “I suppose.”

  The sun was setting by the time archers headed off the field. Simon walked alongside Commander Magnolia, the two of them in the midst of conversation. The top of his head only reached the base of Magnolia’s neck, but that might h
ave been more telling of Simon’s height than hers. He had yet to hit a growth spurt.

  Making eye contact with Bryson and Olivia, Simon shook his commander’s hand and sprinted toward them.

  “See you tomorrow, Torchtop,” Magnolia said.

  Bryson laughed, embracing his small friend. “I guess that nickname stuck, huh?” Torchtop had been a name given to Simon by Princess Shelly when Bryson first introduced them to each other.

  “I like it,” Simon said.

  “Why?”

  “Commander Magnolia explained it as me being a beacon. I guide other archers to reach the level I’m at.”

  “You’re as cocky as the princess,” Olivia said.

  Simon snapped his fingers and pointed at her with a sly look in his eyes. “Confidence.”

  “I take that back,” she said. “You’re Toshik.”

  Simon’s lips flattened. “How is he?”

  Bryson and Olivia exchanged looks before Bryson said, “He’s coping in his own way.”

  “Doesn’t answer my question, but alright.”

  They strolled down the gravel path that split the barracks in two. Bryson smacked Simon’s back and said, “Ponytail, ay? Not letting the waves splash freely?”

  “Have to keep my hair out of my face,” Simon said. “It’s better than the commander’s ulterior solution.”

  Bryson laughed, taking two fingers and pretending to snip away at the boy’s hair. Simon’s entire body recoiled, throwing up his arms to shield his face, giggling maniacally in the process.

  “Good to know you still have that kid in you,” Bryson said.

  Bryson figured Simon was taking them to his assigned barrack, but instead the boy veered left and approached a small building. They stepped inside of a quaint shop where people browsed all kinds of archery merchandise: arrows, arrowheads, traditional bows, crossbows, feathers, limbs, bowstring, bolts. It was an archer’s dream shop.

  None of it seemed to enamor Simon, as he cut straight through and out a back door. They entered an outdoors work area, and, unlike inside, only two people lingered out here. An ink-haired woman sat on a tree stump, rounder in the belly than most archers Bryson had seen so far, but a far cry from someone like Passion King Damian. As she attached arrowheads to their shafts, she spoke with an older gentleman standing at her side.

  Simon waved to her, and she returned the gesture with a smile and a nod. “We received a shipment of yews today,” she said, cutting off the man mid-sentence.

  “Awesome!” Simon exclaimed. He ran toward countless logs piled against the back fence. He retrieved a yew log, brought it to an empty tree stump, and sat on the stump almost exactly like the woman across the yard. He then grabbed a knife from a nearby stump and began to carve into the yew.

  “You make your own equipment?” Bryson asked.

  “The occupational term is fletcher. But no, I don’t make it for myself; I’m not a narcissist,” he said through a laugh. “This is my job slash hobby. Archers fork over a lot of coin for custom-tailored equipment.” He paused to look around. “But as you can tell, not many people have the funds for such luxuries.”

  “So you don’t only shoot the arrows; you make them,” Bryson said.

  Simon smirked, his face flushing a slight shade of pink. “I learned a lot during my year of training in Lingens Rainforest ... survival, foraging, self-preservation, maneuvering in the trees, shooting techniques, and, yes, crafting my own equipment. When you’re in the wild or far away from civilization, what are you going to do if something happens to your bow or if your stockpile of arrows depletes? The only resourceful option is to make use of the land.”

  Simon paused and looked at them. “But that is the only time you use your own equipment.”

  Bryson shook his head in disbelief, floored by Simon’s growth. Tree stumps speckled the ground—over a dozen of them at least. Some were empty, likely serving as seats; others had fletching equipment strewn atop them.

  “Who is she?” Olivia asked, looking in the direction of the woman from earlier.

  “She’s the head fletcher; she runs this establishment.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “I know her by Whistle,” Simon said, his focus still on his own craft.

  Bryson raised an eyebrow. “Whistle?”

  “It’s not her real name,” Simon explained. “They call her that because of the sound her arrows make when they’re ripping through the sky ... and it’s not an exaggeration. It sounds like what I’d imagine a Linsani sounds like—high pitched and violent.”

  “If she’s enlisted with the Intel military, her real name has to be on record,” Bryson said.

  Wood shavings collected at Simon’s feet. “She’s not active duty anymore. But yes, she’s on record. Only high-ranking officials have access to such information, however ... Commander Magnolia, General Lars, or the admiral.”

  “Simon knows more than you do, Bryson,” Olivia teased.

  The boy gazed up from his work, brushing a few fiery strands of hair from his face. “I could never be anything like any of the Jestivan. You’re all heroes.”

  Bryson wanted to sigh. If they were any kind of “heroes,” Yama would still be a Jestivan and Jilly would be alive. But who was he to crush a boy’s dreams?

  “From the looks of things,” Olivia stated, “you’ll be given plenty of chances to become a hero yourself. Are you prepared to be thrust into a battle or mission without notice?”

  “Yes,” Simon said. It was the quickest, firmest affirmation from any fourteen-year-old kid.

  4

  Cosmos

  Toth Brench sat in the same office he’d had while acting as the Chief Merchant in the Amendment Order. He felt most comfortable behind a desk, a swathe of spreadsheets in front of him, rather than a throne or the massive hall it sat in. And with his business settling down in Balle, he began to question his desire to stay in Phelos. This may have been a mistake; Prince Sigmund should have taken the reins.

  He leaned back in his chair, eyeing a module of his prized gem, the Brench Hilt. It was his biggest merchant vessel, rivaling the size of the world’s most daunting navy ships, capable of transporting unfathomable amounts of wealth. It was the one ship he could rely on for a big trade—or that had been the case, once.

  Confiscated by a pirate captain known as Gray Whale, who then transferred ownership over to the Spirit Kingdom, the Hilt was no longer in his possession. Gray’s ship—the Whale Lord—was the most feared beast of the sea. With the spies he’d planted in her crew, Toth had gone decades without being spotted by her. But once those spies had been weeded out, the Hilt’s fate was sealed. The merchant vessel and the Adrenian naval fleet that served as escort were sunk.

  Thoughts of his son, Toshik, who he hadn’t seen in a little over a year, also worried him. After Phesaw’s invasion, he had instructed Toshik to return to their estate in the Adren Kingdom to help run the bladesmithing business. Eventually, Toshik was to lead the transition of the company to Balle, although Toth never informed Toshik of such a plan. Alas, it all fell through when Toshik and Jilly had vanished from the estate.

  Toth’s gaze had become fixated on a single spunka spine that rested on a nearby mantle when a knock on the door tore him out of his thoughts. “Come in,” Toth said.

  The door opened, and Tazama, his blue-haired Dev servant, made her way across the room. Usually, the sight of her made him smile, but he wasn’t in any kind of mood. And from the look on her face, neither was she. She took a seat in front of his desk.

  “Have you found anything out?” Toth asked.

  “It isn’t good news,” Tazama replied solemnly. “Jilly’s dead, Toth.”

  He stared at Tazama for a long moment, his ears ringing, before managing to say, “How?”

  “Toshik and Jilly found Toono and Yama in the mountains. Toono told them that you were waiting for their safe return to Phelos ...” Tazama paused again and then said, “But they wanted no part. Things spiraled out of cont
rol. When Toshik was about to suffer a fatal blow from Yama, Jilly intervened, absorbing the sword’s slash for him.”

  Tears ran silently down Toth’s cheeks. Shaking his head, he asked, “And Toshik’s alive?”

  “From what I’m hearing, yes. Other Jestivan and a Diatia were in the mountains. Olivia Still, Bryson LeAnce, and a Powish girl interfered, according to Toono’s story. Otherwise, he would’ve taken Toshik with him and brought him here. But he was too weak from the previous fight to attempt another round with two royals.”

  Toth reclined in his brown leather chair, looking toward the ceiling with wet eyes. “Does Wert know?” he asked.

  “I came to you first.”

  “As Jilly’s father, he has every right to know,” Toth said, “but we must keep this to ourselves. If he discovers his daughter died to protect the man who was supposed to protect her, there would be no calming his rage. He and I are the two faces of the uprising. If a rift forms between us—especially one of that scale—this regime will perish as abruptly as the Amendment Order did.”

  “I agree,” Tazama said. After another lull, she got up from her seat and said, “I’ll leave you to your thoughts.”

  As the Dev servant exited the office, Toth’s gaze returned to the spunka spine mounted on the wall. Though the opportunity to merge two powerhouse families in the Brenches and Lamays had been lost, that wasn’t what bothered him. It was the mental torture his son had to be experiencing that ate at Toth’s heart. Jilly was supposed to be Toshik’s healer. Now, she too—like his mother and sister—was dead.

  * * *

  Nature’s deathbed stretched for as far as the eye could see. Toono and Dev King Storshae strolled through a blackened meadow, their feet crunching atop the scorched grass. Here and there a few dead trees clawed at the sky with decrepit branches, and in the distance was the beautiful skyline of Cosmos, where Kadlest and Yama were holding down the fort.

  Toono watched as Illipsia played on one of the trees. He was surprised that it could support the weight of any human.

  “Just one of many motivators,” Storshae said thoughtfully.