The Unseen Promise: Tarkeenia Series, #1

By Ellen Mae Franklin

Accused of murdering his brother Roedanth faces the flame. Tainted by dark magic, tragedy and pain follows the lad from Crows Nest to Coowic where the Magi live. Journey into a world of mistrust and treachery: love and sacrifice. It is a place where darkness struggles to convert the truth.

Tarkeenia is awash with life - man and beast live side by side. Monsters hunt the shadows looking for a bite to eat and the tip of balance between dark and light, good and evil is tenuous, even on a good day.

Flesh eating Specks turn the living into dust, and the world is no longer safe. The Murrdock King has been murdered and Prince Pec must change myth into reality.

Strangers become friends, uneasy alliances are tainted by betrayal and self-gain, and unlikely heroes emerge to salvage what they can from a world on the brink of chaos. All strive to make do in a world bubbling with wild magic, as the lives of man and monster hang in the balance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ellen Mae Franklin
• Release date: Jul 29, 2018
• ISBN: 9780995449459

Book preview

The

Unseen

Promise

Ellen Mae Franklin

Tarkeenia Series

Lally Publishing-01

Also by Ellen Mae Franklin

Tarkeenia Series

The Unseen Promise

Heart of Secrets

In the Cold Light

A Fighting Chance

Tarkeenia

A Dark Compendium

12 short stories

Copyright © Ellen Mae Franklin 2014

Cover Design Clarissa Yeo - Yocla Designs

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication can be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrievable system, or transmitted in any form by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without prior written permission from the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

The names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously.

National Library of Australia Cataloguing in Publication (CIP)

Registered with the Public Lending Right (PLR)

Franklin, Ellen Mae 1961

The Unseen Promise

ISBN 9 780 9954494 0 4 - Printed

ISBN 978-0-9954494-5-9 - Ebook

Deposited with the National Library of Australia

The first book in the Tarkeenia Series was created from a love of reading and the wish to share the word. If it were not for the support and gentle prodding of my best friend, who believed that I could, in fact reach the finish line, ‘The Unseen Promise’ would still be in a box under the bed.

This story is dedicated to Bruce; the only man I have ever loved.

The struggle between God and man, magic and indefinable evil is without recourse.

Roedanth wants Peetra back, it doesn't matter the boy is dead; he can't stop wishing. Tainted by dark magic, tragedy and pain follow Roedanth from Crows Nest to Coowic where the Magi live.

Tarkeenia is awash with life - man and beast live side by side. Monsters hunt the shadows looking for a bite to eat. The tip of balance between dark and light, good and evil is tenuous, even on a good day.

Flesh eating Specks turn the living into dust, and the world is no longer safe. The Murrdock King has been murdered. Prince Pec must change myth into reality.

Strangers become friends, uneasy alliances are tainted by betrayal and self-gain, and unlikely heroes emerge to salvage what they can from a world on the brink of chaos.

All strive to make do in a world bubbling with wild magic, as the lives of man and monster hang in the balance. Can Tarkeenia survive the tug and pull of the very spoilt, and the very wicked? Can those lost to the dark find a way back to the light? Is it possible to forget, or to forgive and begin again? All these questions and more are answered as the reader walks Tarkeenia's many paths.

Chapters

In the beginning

Blame, guilt and a warm fire

Truth or dare

And you ask yourself could it get any worse?

You can never have enough friends

Help me if you can, I’m going mad

We can be heroes if just for one day

Sink or swim

Bargain and sand, we’re finally off

And yet, just another beginning

Somewhere over the ocean

Home again, home again jiggerty jig

Can you help?

Chained but not forgotten

Can the loss of one be too much to bear?

A decision a day makes for light work, but it’s never that easy

Murder by any other name is but murder

We’re all going on a summer holiday

A spitting gift

News all round

Blind but sure

If you never look, then you will never know

It never pays to be that sick

A sacrifice paid in full

It doesn’t smell that bad, surely?

From his sick bed

Another goodbye

In the beginning

What is curiosity? Is it a beginning or an ending? Should you embrace it or do you shut your eyes and pray for the love of whatever god you hold dear it disappears? It is a thing without limitations and restraints, for it carries no conscience, other than what its bearer holds. So I ask, should it be revered or feared? For it begs to be heard and no matter how much you should wish, offer it the smallest measure of mercies.

Even the gods feel the tug, of its seductive charm, all except for one. He believed he alone held its secrets and valued curiosity as a favourite trinket to be kept close until such time as needed.

So, be warned my friend for to answer its call - curiosity's enticing song must be with hopeful eyes and a steady heart, for trouble always follows.

Loud squabbling and turbulent bickering echoed throughout Father's Halls. Raised voices excited by the argument filtered into the vast expanse. The conversation, furious in its zeal, drew him on. He slipped among them as a thread of darkness, a thin tentacle of spite, and with natural ease, the god burrowed and twisted this atrophied shape into a shadowed corner. Hiding quietly as the banter roiled and teased the air around them, Drakite smiled. He sent a whisper, a teasing suggestion, and the immortals, his brothers, and sisters, responded with such fervour that he yielded to the tug of curiosity's pull. Ten of the eleven sat together, embodied in their chosen shape. Changing every so often, depending on the flow of mood or the turn of a conversation. One or two threw out blinding colours, while others chose to hold physical forms, taking on the guise of their devoted followers. Each revelled in the transformation, impatient to get on with it.

The other one, believed by the rest to be craven and void of consciousness, was not at the table - a marble thing of reflective darkness, fashioned and loved by Father. To one side, rippling ever so slightly, the sliver of blackness lifted a little higher, never leaving the shadows, for it did not want to be noticed. The twisted tentacle remained silent and listened to the squabble as it swelled then fell, while outside time slept.

Sharing was the basis of their argument. Could they exist together on a divergent world? Could they each subsist, not interfering with the race of their choosing or those of their siblings? Could it be done? Should it be done? So much Wild Magic in one place, at one time, still, who were they, if not gods? Selfish and untamed children of a higher being and refusing to be thwarted in this whim, they invoked a recipe like none other.

Each rose and delving deep within took from their essence a pinch of Wild Magic. Calling the world into existence, Tarkeenia fell favoured to the following gifts:

First came a fistful of dust, thus forming land.

A single glistening tear from Atheria gave the new world water and a bounty of salty oceans.

A breath, torrid but yet still sweet enough to cool the heat Emanon gave rise to the winds.

A trickle of blood gave the gift of life.

An incandescent spark, a flame full of purpose, created fire.

An ice shard, dripping onto the ground below, gave Tarkeenia a wondrous fairing, the changing of seasons.

A lump of coal cast to the mix, and brought with it, night.

A petal from a budding flower, an embodiment of scent, and the world erupted with fragrance

A crystal note, perfect pitched, and with sublime harmony offered Tarkeenia sound and music.

A diamond, rough and brilliant, reflecting the light gave colour to the new world.

Each a god's gift, each tainted in Wild Magic. Boiling and bubbling, forming the foundation of the new world, and then Father spoke. Drakite cringed in his blanketed perch.

WHAT HAVE YOU DONE? His words resounded in their minds and his children recoiled from the asking. Father entered the chamber wearing a suit of brilliant light. Their eyes burned just to look upon it, but to turn aside would have meant his wrath and gods though they might be, He was their Father, their creator. Reluctantly they raised their eyes, not enough to look into his, for that would be death, even for immortals such as these.

A NEW WORLD! A WORLD OF WILD MAGIC! HOW CAN THIS BE? He demanded, the light from his immense form shimmering, in anger and a little in amusement, for he doted on his children nonetheless.

Atheria lifted her angelic face and spoke with her usual sanguineness. Father, I beg you, indulge us this fancy. Do not be angered by our indiscretion, for although we acted without acquiescence we did so in the belief we could achieve a paradisiacal world.

She was a favourite; this child born of light and love, and despite his misgivings about such a venture, the Father of all gave his consent. He laughed, a rumbling of mountains, the shaking of a billion stars shivered to the sound of his mirth. With a lazy toss of his head, a violet sphere appeared pulsing and spinning in full view of them all.

SHE WILL BE CALLED - PATA BATU; THE MOON OF YOUR NEW WORLD. IT WILL BE THE KEY TO HOLD IN ALL THIS WILD MAGIC YOU SO FOOLISHLY UNLEASHED. 

With a flick of a finger, the moon cracked and fell apart into two oscillating halves. The separate halves of this disjointed orb coloured rose and blue revealed the sign of approval, but in the giving of this gift a serious a warning followed. There could be no interference, no excuses. They could never walk Tarkeenia to influence or indulge. Only through prayer and worship could his children play.

He vanished and the chamber became diminished by the leaving of such brilliance. Inside the cauldron, Tarkeenia's forming left to harden while the sibling gods, bored once again drifted away, back to their worlds and whatever was in the moment pleased them.

Drakite alone, in obscurity, full of loathing and odious contempt as the room emptied approached the cauldron and spat. A gleaming shard of hate crept across his face; he had given up his gift in that spitting, a well-loved deposit of curiosity and chaos and glob of ruination for this world of theirs. He threw back his head and laughed.

Blame, guilt and a warm fire

The sound of steel on stone shook the narrow laneway where the two brothers lay in hiding. Voices, dark growls threatening death and a most certain bloody end, roared in Roedanth's head. The hand clamped over Peetra's mouth trembled, in fear, but also in worry. There would be no going anywhere now, not with half the city guard after them.

Peetra, why did you do it? Spoke a shaken whisper into the still ear of his only brother. We had it all, a roof over our heads, two meals a day, and I was learning a trade. Why, Peetra?

Blood stained his hands; had soaked through to his undergarments and the sticky feeling of Peetra's life on his skin made him feel sick. Roedanth shifted the damp, coarse stone against his back a chafing reminder they were up to their necks in shit. Peetra groaned, the sound escaping from in between Roedanth's fingers. Startled, Roedanth wriggled again, pulling his brother in closer and the bolt in Peetra's breast thrummed.

By the stars, I'm sorry, Peetra. I didn't mean it. More whispering, but this time Roedanth stroked and smoothed out his brother's sweat-soaked hair. You're burning up.

The voices were in spitting distance now; two in particular set his heart racing.

I told you Sam, the old woman pointed down this-a-ways. A Tolerian slur marked the man as a mercenary; half the city guards were mercenaries, paid for by the taxes collected by the current King of Crow's Nest.

So, you'll take the word of an old woman instead of a warm fire and a mug of beer, grumbled the other.

Roedanth could almost hear the sulk in the man's voice. It was cruel, and he again withstood the pangs of guilt. The Tolerian's response erupted into a grunt, whether in agreement with his companion's remark or from the veracity of his own duty the boy didn't know. What he did know was that Mr. Bicky lay dead and Peetra dying. Who would believe him those two men with their hard eyes and hungry swords? Not likely. There were no friends in the city guard. The lengthening shadows were a friend, though - they created deeper, darker corners to hide in.

The men were almost upon them now. The sulky one, obviously bored with the chase whistled out to a woman, her voluptuous tits strained against the cheap cloth of her garish, far too small dress. She called back, a drunken invitation promising more than just a passing fondle.

Now, what I wouldn't give to spend five minutes with the likes of that, crooned the sulky one.

The Tolerian grunted. Listen, the quicker we find these murdering bastards, the more time you'll have in wetting that wick you so fondly talk about all the time.

Harlots and thieves occupied the lower levels of Crow's Nest, gracing The Seed with their filthy company. A dangerous place to those not guilded - the setting of the sun usually sorted out the fools from the foolhardy. The two guards were almost on top of them. The damp air didn't disguise the rank stench of unwashed bodies, stale spirits and for the most alarming part, irritation. The Tolerian hawked a glob of phlegm; arcing the pledge over the barrels the lads hid behind. Startled, Roedanth moved his hand higher, covering Peetra's mouth and nose. The terrified young man squeezed tighter. It would be the Seven Hells for them both after what his brother had done; there could be no forgiveness to murder

One of them took a bolt. I saw Skinny Nose loose one into the smaller youngling. He never misses. In after-thought, the Tolerian cleared his throat again. The bastard.

More noise, steady footsteps, unhurried and oddly familiar coming their way. Both guards turned; the scraping of their heavy steel boots clunked on the stone laneway as they met the new stranger.

Who's this then? Not too friendly, but friendly enough to stop the approaching man. An eerie yellow flame crept closer, dispelling some of the surrounding shadows that harboured the boys.

An old voice cracked with age called out. Just the Bearer. I light the way for the souls who need the cheer at night. I carry the fire. I am its keeper.

Well and good, old man. Maybe a bit of light might help us catch the murdering pair, spoke the local.

Might indeed, good sir. Poor Mr. Bicky. I heard he was a good man, mostly that is. There are some around these parts, though, that held the rough side of their tongue for him. In a quiet voice, meant only for the two guards, the Bearer leaned in. They said he had a fondness, you know - for the little innocents.

What do you mean, little ones, old man? Curiosity tinged the question.

The old man glanced up the laneway and frowned, then back to the questioning man. You ain't 'eard it from me, but I knows a woman whose husband drinks at the Brown Jug and he said he likes the boys. He treasured em' young you know.

Disgusting... spat the Tolerian.

Roedanth's' eyes welled. He'd been such a fool not to see the truth. As he leaned his head against the stone, closing his eyes to stop the tears, the memory seared fresh wounds into his already bleeding heart. Peetra huddled on his cot, knees drawn up to his chin - his eyes red-rimmed as he mutely shook his head, refusing to talk - Mr. Bicky rubbing at his crotch, whenever Peetra found the nerve to visit the workshop or the furnaces - Jolein sniggering at the fat man's leering face.

How could he have not seen it? Perhaps his gratefulness at being given a home for himself and his brother, and the high luck on being accepted as a Copper apprentice blinded the truth. Oh god, it wasn't his talent for the precious metal that had attracted Mr. Bicky after all. Roedanth unconsciously tightened his grip on his younger brother's face. Anger and grief rose up, sharp as a knife, as he realized it was Peetra who his master desired.

The voices were further away now, fading off into the coming night as they disappeared down the laneway. The old man moved on, taking the brighter light with him. The men satisfied that their search was at an end, followed the Bearer. Once again, they were alone. The beginnings of a rowdy night were brewing, taverns, and brothels all getting into the swing of business - but for the moment, they sat safely hidden. The city sentries still walked the streets and the locals still finishing off the day's trade remained indoors. It would be a little while yet before laneways became a bustling mess. The muggings and murders carried out tonight would be ignored, left untouched. After all, who cared about the lower levels anyway?

Mr. Bicky, though, was another matter. To the everyday world, he presented the face of a respectable man, a wealthy man, loyal to the King and Crown. He paid his taxes, always on time, and donated a heavy purse each month to the Biscop's House - as if paying his way would open the gates to a heavenly afterlife. What he did behind closed doors and in the seedy shade of his own home although deviant was tolerated. No one ever spoke ill of Mr. Bicky, no one dared.

He let out an exhausted breath and eased the pressure from Peetra's face. The blood dried on his skin, on his brother's clothes and on the weathered flagstones below. So much blood, so much guilt

Peetra slumped to the ground and for the briefest of moments Roedanth peered over the barrels. Left, then right and left again, the flickering light from the iron standard allowed him to see a little way beyond. It wouldn't be long before the night trade filled the streets, then it would be safe. He would hide his brother and fetch a healer. The money he had saved was well hidden, tucked up tight behind one of the furnaces. 

Jolein wouldn't look there, why would he? That pox-faced snoop didn't work, yet he took everything, all the things that weren't his. Roedanth copped a black eye and the loss of his first month's wages to learn that Jolein was Mr. Bicky's eyes and ears in the workshop. He was never wrong. Yes, he had learned the hard way.

Turning back to Peetra, Roedanth bent down to inspect his brother's wounds. Peetra, wake up, wake up. Gently he eased the cooling body back into his arms. He stroked his hair again. Your fever's gone; you're going to be alright Peetra. Open you eyes brother.

Silence. His stillness was alarming. Laying a slim finger against the side of his brother's neck, Roedanth listened for a pulse. The faintest sign of life would be a beacon of assurance. A flicker of an eyelid to stop the rising guilt, drool or snot to coax a smile, but there was nothing, no life, no hope for a miracle. Peetra had died under his hand. In the fear of being caught, Roedanth had suffocated any chance of securing salvation for either of them. Peetra was dead - and the panic, freshly awoken, brimming with trembling nerves and sweaty palms, and now gave way to tears. Silent drops splashed onto the blue-tinged flesh around his brother's mouth and eyes. Lost was his only family; there was no one left, nothing.

Holding his hand, Roedanth stared numbly as he grieved over the last of the shadows disappearing under the rise of the Pata Batu. Soon the darkness would conceal his dash, the one that would save him. It would be a relief to put all to rest, kindness in a sick guilty way, to end a fat man's depravity, no matter what the cost. But not all endings come with a happy promise. For Roedanth, this would be the case. From here on, all would pale in comparison to what was to come.

Jolien stood over his employer's body and with grim satisfaction made a mental note of everything in the room. All would be his, just as soon as he could arrange a cart from the Biscop's House to collect the ripening corpse. He would catch the shutters and lock the door. A pity that the other one - ah, what was his name? Yes, the other apprentice - Jac. He was still at the Sanctum. They first thought him ill, the kind you get when you're feeling more than poorly. But that hadn't been the case; Mr. Bicky said just a few weeks ago that Jac got the Calling. He would not be coming back and a good thing, too, because now Jolein would never have to share. All the more for his empty pockets, and at the end of the day, the Coppersmith shop would be Jolein's. 

Good riddance to the little prick and I hopes the other two burn, in the Seven Hells, Jolien muttered. To no one in particular for he lounged alone, but it felt better saying the words out loud, over the rotting body. Mr. Bicky, a white needle dicked nonce whose taste in small boys had ultimately led him to a cold grave. As sick as the fat man was, the skinny man liked him in his own way. Despite all the leering the Master had been an exceptional Coppersmith, and now that he was dead, Jolien would have to try and hold the business together himself.

He knew that Mr. Bicky's Will: a sheet of yellow parchment finely written and kept with the lawyers, Marches and Bearers herald uncertainty. He had been with the Master the longest, so wasn't it only right that he should take on the business and everything it owned.

Are you done with your leave-takings? The Biscop's cleric stood at the door, his saffron robe hanging loosely on his thin body. His baldhead caught the last glint of sunlight as it fell away to the darkening sky giving the man a holy look, and Jolien stepped away from Mr. Bicky's dead body as though it was a thing to be feared. Yes, yes, of course, I am finished. I thought it right to say my goodbyes, especially after what has happened. He was a charitable man, a kind man, and to think that those two murdering bastards... He had the decency to look abashed. I am sorry, your Holiness. I didn't mean to blaspheme, I can't help but get angry just thinking about what they did. As the cleric stepped up to the lanky lad, a sour smell wafted up Jolien's nose, and again he felt sick, but the rich baritone voice and the well-manicured hand, which reached out officiously chilled him further. Beside the holy-man, the pimply faced youth felt as tiny as a dobmouse, and to the church itself, he nothing more than a suffering sinner. But hell, what was there to lose? If he played his cards right the Biscop's greedy needs would serve his own.

Your Holiness, I would ask...What is being done about his killers? Jolien softened his voice. To any other, it would have sounded like a whine, but to the cleric, there was only the voice of a grieving lad.

Dark eyes probed Jolien's watery ones. The monk nodded. Oh, you need not care, they're being searched for and when they are found, the King will have his way. Do you know these men? Jolien could feel the man's heat. Do you know where they might be now?

The fuzzy hair on the apprentice's lip quivered under the cleric's scrutiny. It was well known that the Biscop's House welcomed the death of sinners. Everyone knew that. Only those who had a mind to keep living portrayed the life of a saintly man.

No, I don't know where they are, but I wish I did. It was his apprentice who did this, him and his lusty brother through jealous yearnings, always wanting Mr. Bicky's things for himself. He pushed his kin into my employer's arms; trying every charm and evil doings he could think of to get what he wanted. Jolien regarded the priest from lowered eyes. The cleric's face reddened under the apprentice's enlightenment, so he continued. I just never thought he would resort to murdering the poor man. It's a tragedy, that's what it is, a terrible blow. He sniffed at the closing of his little speech.

The cleric bent over the stiffening corpse, the slight beginning of decay slowly wafting into the air around them. Jolien stepped back as far as he could respectfully go, for he was afraid that he would vomit if this discourse were to continue any longer. The Order scared him and