The Children of Harenis

By Nick Shepley

As monsoon rains hammer Harenis, the city of scholars and their abandoned children, mysteries are uncovered. The parents of Dreya and Zan Khanhalary venture into the dark of the great library of Harenis, a store of knowledge the size of a city. Dark forces from across the Great Arc Sea now threaten the lives of the Children of Harenis. A desperate race for survival among the ancient towers and abandoned harbours of the city begins.
The Children of Harenis is the first Arclands story, set in the continent of Aestis.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nick Shepley
• Release date: Nov 25, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370819584

Book preview

The Children Of Harenis

The Harenian Cycle: Book One

AN ARCLANDS STORY

Copyright © 2017 Nick Shepley

The Children Of Harenis

The Harenian Cycle: Book One

An Arclands Story

Publisher: Verse Studios

Cover Art: Katya Moskvina

Editing: Vicki Camps, Kanchan Dutt, David Harris

All rights reserved.

Preface

"...When the Vannic Empire ruled, it stretched from its citadels above the clouds in the peaks of the Arching Mountains all the way to the northern shores of the Greater Arc Sea. The Van controlled the heart of Aestis and ignored the eastern and western Arclands as untameable savagery. They saw themselves as the link between the heavens and the earth, and were so enamoured with themselves and their own civilisation that they committed all they knew to parchment; anyone who knows the history of the Van will tell you that parchment is power. Schools of learning sprung up across the empire during the reign of Dures II, Emperor of the Mount, and during the four decades of his reign, and the shorter, less glorious rule of his son and grandson, a vast library was built. So grand and audacious was this project that it took nearly a century to complete, and an army of the Van Empire’s master craftsmen servants, the Firg. The library was built at the foot of Mount Khest and its many vast chambers spread deep into the mountain, growing to the size of the great cities of the Arc Sea.

It was claimed by the Del Marahan seer Mois Trar that a man could spend a lifetime in the library and barely read a fraction of what was stored there; the Van had put in one place all the world’s learning and they jealously safeguarded it. Many scholars who trekked from across the known world to read the secrets and knowledge of the Van found life under the mountain unbearable, and some established the city of Harenis on an archipelago of islands along the southern Arc Sea coastline some fifty leagues from the library. As the Van Empire collapsed and its successor empire in the great city of Arc brought order to the continent, Harenis thrived under its new protector. Harenis became a seat of learning and knowledge for generations of scholars and sages, and the city’s white marble schools sat just above the waves. Harenian scholars for centuries have lived in the city but looked to the mountain with a mixture of fascination and fear, knowing in their hearts that in its chambers lie the secrets they hunger for, but also in the darkness lies a fate of obsession that has seen many of their number disappear into the shadows of the library and never return…"

From ‘The writings on histories of arcanism, magickes, fables and histories of the peoples of Aestis’ by Mordei Morhannan of the School of Dorus.

Chapter One

Faren Khanhalary turned down the hurricane lamp to a low flicker, its wick glowing red. The Sage of Earthly Things at the School of Neem ushered his wife, Maredh, Scribe to the Masters of Neem, to the table at the centre of the room. He put his finger to his lips, bidding her to remain silent; she had wondered when this moment would arise. Finally, after months of waiting, worrying and hoping against hope that they would never have to speak of what was hidden deep in the chest in the corner of the room, the time had arisen. How long Faren had been preparing this moment, she had no idea, but she knew that her husband was nothing if not meticulous. It was so deeply ingrained within him to eliminate all other possibilities before bringing an alarming thesis to others that it was inconceivable to her that he had not answered as many of his own questions as possible already.

It was the questions that Faren could not answer that she feared the most; it was the possibility that she might see his fear that she steeled herself against. He rolled out a piece of parchment on to the table and slid it towards her. Inscribed on the page in the language that the two of them had developed in the months of their courtship, some fifteen years earlier, was a set of propositions, drawings, and as she feared, questions. Maredh sat and read intently while Faren stood, impassive. Then, she reached for a quill and began to write, addressing the questions one by one, in absolute silence.

The humidity of the Harenian night penetrated the thick stone walls of the Khanhalary’s townhouse in the city’s third circle, along with the usual mosquitos and sandflies. The dull heat and biting insects not only drifted into insignificance as the two wrote throughout the night, but to Maredh they actually became a comfort. They were a curious form of connection to the real things of the world, things that their written words and seemingly unanswerable questions pulled them further away from, hour by hour.

Just before dawn broke they stopped, Faren took the parchment and lit it with the wick of the lamp and as flames licked at the edges of their words. He placed it in the fireplace until it was engulfed and then gone. He went to the chest in the corner, opened it and lifted the lid and pulled out a long flat object, wrapped in a cloth. Carefully, he placed it on the table and unwrapped it. Inside lay a long thin dagger-like shard of stone, the likes of which, until recently, Faren and Maredh had never seen before. It was grey, but not granite, nor ironstone - in fact from some angles and in certain lights it seemed more like steel than stone. Each time Faren looked at it, he hoped that he would see something different, something about the stone that he might recognise from his studies, something that might help to explain what it was. He was always disappointed.

Maredh folded it again and put it away, unable to bear looking at it and what it represented any longer. Instead, she took his hand and led him up the creaking wooden steps to the mezzanine floor that overlooked their small sitting room. Together, under woolen blankets, lay their two children: Dreya’s slender figure and long brown hair; Zan, his shock of white blond hair bleached by the Harenian sun, curled up against his older sister for comfort. Silent tears flowed relentlessly from Faren and Maredh’s eyes as they stood over their children, knowing the price that their unanswered questions would exact.

Each night they would return from their labours, eat, put their children to bed and then work. Each night drew them closer and closer to the same bleak conclusions. Almost exactly a month from the first, long, dreaded night of silent discussion, the two adults rose at dawn to face the long journey to the library under the mountain, fifty miles east. It was a semi regular aspect of life for most Harenian scholars and one their children gradually, but never fully, became adjusted to. Weeks alone, with only minders and carers from the scholastic houses to half-heartedly check in on them was a way of life for the city’s young. This time, however, it was different.

Faren and Maredh’s performance of normality , while imperfect, was adequate enough. Above all things they had vowed not to let the mask drop, their children’s safety depended on it. There would be time for grief later, they knew. And yet, and yet as they knelt to kiss their children, knowing where their journeys would take them and how far away they must go, Maredh felt her husband shudder beside her, as if forcing back a sob. Human pain is a potent force with a life and a mind of its own and will not be constrained, not even by parents desperate to protect their children. The reality that Faren and Maredh were blind to was that their efforts were for nothing and that they had raised a daughter in their own image. Shrewd, deductive and unwilling to deceive herself, Dreya Khanhalary knew this was no ordinary goodbye, but unlike her parents, who’s emotions betrayed them every time, her performance was flawless. She knew her act had to be for her younger brother, the innocent and unknowing Zan.

***

As the humid summer ebbed away into a stormy autumn and the southern monsoon rains battered the cities of the Arc Coast, the various tribes of semi-abandoned offspring of Harenian scholars shut themselves away for weeks on end, bored and frustrated as the stone streets of the city became rivers and waterfalls. During the brief dry hours when the rains abated and it became safe to venture out, they poured onto the streets and the city echoed with the frenetic pent up energy of youth. Harenis was a city made for the old, with little to recommend it to the young. The adult world seemed to be utterly intolerant of its offspring and ignorant to the insatiable urges that all children had for distraction and play.

The scholastic families of the city who raised the majority of children within the first three circles of the city, seemed to hope that their offspring would not just grow up to emulate them; but hoped they start acting like them now. The delusion that they would lose themselves in ancient texts about the Del Marahan language or the pre-history of Gol were routinely dashed. The children of Harenis had no time for such suffocating pursuits and instead roamed the city in two and threes, occasionally grouping together into larger gangs. These invariably lasted for a week or two until internal rivalries, jealousies and disputes splintered them. It was as much as they could do to stave off the boredom.

Dhugo Rhen, a short round faced boy with a mop of dark brown hair and ears that stuck out, had waited for the end to the rains for weeks. Sullenly he peered from his attic window at the torrential downpour and the low hanging cloud, and was beside himself with excitement when there was a glimpse of sunlight. His older brother, Boyn, had ventured out several times in the last few days without him, sprinting off into the gloom leaving Dhugo behind with no small amount of rejection and hurt. Madame Hari, the overbearing housekeeper that their parents had hired to feed, clothe and manage the boys, was too slow to catch the headstrong Boyn, but more than quick enough to prevent the less agile Dhugo from following him.

Watching Boyn’s escape route through door at the back of the cold store and down a narrow cobbled lane at the side of the house, Dhugo eventually summoned the courage and agility to emulate it. He had no idea where his brother had been going, but the air of excitement that Boyn exuded each time he returned was intoxicating. Whatever was going on, Dhugo wanted to join in. He saw his brother make his now all too familiar exit from the family home and after the cold store door swung shut, Dhugo raced to join him. Boyn had vanished round the corner by the time Dhugo had emerged on to the street. Initially he was simply glad to be free of the house and able to roam the streets and attempt to follow brother’s wake. However, it occurred to him as he followed Boyn through the streets that he had no idea where his brother was going. He caught sight of Boyn again as he weaved expertly between the market-goers taking advantage of the break in the weather, the fishermen hurrying out to sea and the scholars scurrying across the slippery stones clutching books, glancing nervously at the skies.

Boyn! shouted Dhugo, almost out of breath.

He knew his brother had heard him, a hundred paces ahead in the crowd, but no answer came. Boyn seemed to work his way through the crowd and away from the third circle with determination; wherever he was going, it wasn’t nowhere. Despite all the petty spitefulnesses that Boyn as an older brother was almost constitutionally bound to inflict on Dhugo, abandoning him had never been one of them. Dhugo summoned all his energies and made a desperate dash to catch up. A meeting of scholars on the steps of a hostelry, discussing with a group of Pheffists in animated terms something in Del Marahan slowed Boyn down and gave Dhugo the opportunity he needed. His lungs burning and his breath ragged he finally caught up with his brother, almost knocking him off his feet. Boyn’s expression was a mixture of shock, anger and unexpectedly, panic.

Boyn, Boyn, wait... Dhugo grasped Boyn’s jerkin, pulling him in a bid to stop his brother temporarily.

Boyn spun round in surprise and then shock, seeming to be momentarily horrified to see his brother. He swatted his hand away and turned with a look of exasperation. Go home, go home now Dhugo, why are you here? What are you doing here?

Dhugo attempted to form sentences but they were lost in an endless stammering. Boyn’s harsh expression softened momentarily and he relented, seeing his brother’s stammer return as it always did when Dhugo felt panicked or afraid.

Please, please go home Dhugo, you shouldn’t have come, I’ve got something I have to do, you wouldn’t understand. There’s some friends of mine, I have to see them…

Who? Dhugo asked, unable to summon any further words.

Boyn was about to answer, when a tall dark haired boy, definitely not from the third circle, emerged from the crowd and furtively gesturing with a nod of the head for Boyn to follow him. The boy caught sight of Dhugo and stared at Dhugo, with his eyes alone demanding to know where an extra person had emerged from. Boyn reluctantly shrugged, unable to provide his friend with any meaningful answers. Short of sending the notoriously indiscrete sibling home, there was nothing that could be done than to take him with them; Boyn gestured with his head, it was a reluctant body language that told Dhugo he was permitted to join them, for now.

Dhugo’s curiosity had now made him party to whatever Boyn was involved in. He had never seen the other boy before, but it was clear from the familiarity that Boyn and the newcomer shared that they were well acquainted with one another. Boyn had kept this friendship a secret, something most unlike him. Boyn’s friend completely ignored Dhugo and the two of them seemed to reflect a growing excitement about something between each other. All of this gave Dhugo a strange, uneasy feeling; a deep desire to walk back through the streets to the safety of home that wrestled for supremacy with feelings of loyalty to Boyn. As the Pheffists finished their conversations with the Harenian scholars and departed, Boyn and his new friend looked to a tall, thin man with slicked back hair and a scarred face, standing at the near end of a bridge by the hostelry. Boyn’s friend grinned at him, but Dhugo felt more uncertain and worried, as more evidence of a secretive world that he had been excluded from emerged.

It’s Ratcoats, he came! said the other boy. Boyn looked back uneasily at Dhugo, his recent reluctant invitation to his brother was clearly about to be revoked. The boy ran over to meet Ratcoats and Boyn walked with a more pronounced air of reluctance. Dhugo followed silently, now both confused and uneasy about the appearance of another stranger, until now hidden from him. Ratcoats did not appear pleased.

This is it? He said to Boyn’s friend. The boy shrugged.

No one else wanted to come, couldn’t get them to come. Only him, he said, gesturing to Boyn.

What about the other one? Asked Ratcoats.

That’s my brother, said Boyn, He’s going home soon.

Dhugo would ordinarily have left then and there, but it was dawning on him that his brother had done something very foolish and leaving him now made Dhugo feel sick to his stomach with anxiety.

So just one, Ratcoats grimaced, bad, bad Kwann, bad for me, definitely bad for you.

Boyn, with a sudden flash of uncharacteristic anger and menace turned to Dhugo, his fists clenched, his expression murderous.

I swear Dhugo, go now or I will... but Ratcoats cut him off.

He stays, Ratcoats announced, seen too much already and we’re need as many as we can get.

Boyn, with a stunned expression looked at his brother, shaking his head, but he already knew it was too late. Dhugo was now going to be included in Boyn’s secretive activities whether he wanted to be or not.

As the group made their way across the marble bridges of the Third Circle and into the fourth, a district Dhugo and his brother had been forbidden by their parents to enter, the mounting worry and uncertainty grew within him. These streets were unfamiliar, the people in them less like the scholars, apprentices and children that filled his world. The alleyways were darker and the market squares emptier; sullen women sat upon steps gutting fish or making rope and only added to Dhugo’s sense of being lost and out of place.

Eventually they came to a flight of stone steps that descended to an all but abandoned jetty. The steps ran down from a cobbled street and were partially obscured by the corner of a tall stone townhouse. Boyn’s friend ran to the corner and crouched down, peering round and down the steps towards the water, gesturing to Boyn and Ratcoats.

Kwann, are they there? Have they come? Boyn said excitedly.

Kwann, a Virefolk name; but there were no Virefolk in Harenis, as far as Dhugo was aware. Kwann turned back to Boyn, nodding emphatically, a big smile on his face. Boyn laughed excitedly, but with an unmistakable note of fear in his voice.

They’re here, he said, they actually came.

Ratcoats was impassive, shaking his head at Boyn’s evident folly. Dhugo trailed behind his brother ever more reluctantly, but was aware of Ratcoats presence behind him and felt unable to turn back. Dhugo saw his older brother scramble after Kwann down a flight of stone steps to the empty Harenian harbourside. He paused at the top of the steps and stared with trepidation at the scene below. A small cog with tattered red brown sails was moored by the jetty. A handful of men and one woman climbed over the side of the boat; Dhugo was not blessed with the greatest judgement in the Rhen household, but his instinct spoke to him clearly. Something rotten had found its way into the heart of Harenis. He had no idea what he was seeing, other than it was something so far away from the world he and Boyn were meant to be existing in that it was, by default, danger. Boyn couldn’t help but have secrets, it was how he had always operated. Whether it was stealing, hiding or making new friends, no one ever saw all of Boyn’s world; Dhugo had forced himself into part of that hidden world now and its contours and colours were emerging, though it was unclear to Dhugo what they meant.

One man, a squat, broad shouldered bald type with a hard face and hands that seemed to have been made for breaking things called Kwann and Ratcoats over to him.

Is this it? You got one, just one? He asked, jabbing Kwann in the chest. No longer quite the powerful figure that he had previously been, Kwann seemed diminished. Ratcoats hovered out