The Promise

By Anne B. Walsh

Jonathan Brinwald, manservant to his half-brother Nathaniel, idly speaks aloud his greatest wish one wintry night under the stars: a new home, where both he and his brother could find a place to belong, and be healed from the sorrows of their past. The land of Olechna, where magic is common and the winter holidays bring joy to all, seems a likely candidate to fulfill this wish, especially once Jonathan meets Cecilia, a lovely baker who works at the royal palace. But the realm and its people hide many secrets, and the brothers soon find themselves entangled in complications they never expected. On the darkest night of the year, when grief and pain seem impossibly strong, can a promise between them bring about a happy ending for all?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anne B. Walsh
• Release date: Dec 10, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463716724

Anne B. Walsh

Anne B. Walsh was telling stories about magic and intrigue from the time she could talk, but it took her twenty years to realize she could make a living at it. Her first novel, historical fantasy "A Widow in Waiting", has its origins in a PBS special which changed her life; her second, family-focused fantasy "Homecoming", takes its inspiration from some of her other writing; and her third, soft science fiction "Killdeer", stems from her constant interest in the ways in which the future and the past coincide. Anne lives east of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, with one roommate (Krystal), two black Labs (Buddy and Brando), and two black cats (Starsky and Hutch). Sadly, their Cane Corso mastiff, Bruce, passed away in mid-August 2013, and their first cats, Poppy and Sesame, who helped inform Anne's first collection of short stories, "Cat Tales", passed out of their lives after an accident on Christmas Day 2013. No one ever said life was fair. Anne's parents and siblings live two hours north of her, otherwise known as just far enough away. She has also been writing Harry Potter fan fiction for more than ten years and is known best in that genre as the creator of the "Dangerverse" alternate universe (which inspired "Homecoming"). Beyond writing fiction, Anne's preoccupations include reading fiction; singing anywhere that will have her, including her church and local galas; theatre, especially musicals; all forms of cooking; and her family and friends. Within writing fiction, her preoccupations are much the same, meaning most of her stories involve loving families, delicious food, and good music. Consider yourself warned. A number of projects continue to need Anne's attention as she writes her original novels. Among these are her ongoing fanfiction works in various fandoms such as Harry Potter and Frozen, and the themed fantasy anthologies she co-authors with her friend and fellow author Elizabeth Conall.

Book preview

The Promise

A Marrain Christmas Legend:

Holidays with Anne, Volume 7

Anne B. Walsh

Copyright 2018

Table of Contents

Dedication

Foreword

The Promise

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Epilogue

Author’s Note

Also by Anne B. Walsh

About the Author

Dedication

For everyone who has ever broken a promise.

What matters is that you get back up, make it right, and travel on.

Foreword

The Promise is not a Christmas carol.

If you’re new to the writing of Anne B. Walsh (that’s me!), you may be wondering why I’d say that. What do Christmas carols have to do with anything? But if you’ve been around a while, you’ll know that for the last several years, in November or December, I have released a collection of short stories with Christmas and winter holiday themes, which share their titles with slightly lesser-known Christmas carols. This year’s title departs from that tradition.

However, it keeps with the tradition in another way. While not a carol per se, The Promise is indeed a piece of Christmas music, a choral anthem written by Russell and Joel Nagy. You can learn more, or listen to a recording, on the website of Beckenhorst Press, the music publisher. Similarly, this year’s holiday offering is quite a bit different from the collections I have done to this point. Not only is it all one story, but it is by far the longest piece I have ever written for the holidays, coming in well over fifty thousand words. (To compare, most of my little collections in their entirety run thirty to thirty-five thousand!)

Weirdest of all, at the beginning of November, I had no idea this story was going to happen. I had, reluctantly, decided that a holiday gift for my readers would not be forthcoming this year, and turned my attention to my National Novel Writing Month project. However, halfway through the month…

Well, why don’t I let you see for yourself. Check out the Author’s Note at the end if you want to know more, but for now, please enjoy my 2018 holiday story, The Promise.

Anne B. Walsh

December 8, 2018

Silently by night, in mortal flesh enshrouded,

He who framed the mountains draws first breath;

Far from human sight, the promise ne’er forgotten

Is in love begotten, to conquer death…

Joel Nagy, The Promise

Part One

Jonathan Brinwald ducked under the low lintel of the hatch and mounted the ladder two rungs at a time, drawing a deep breath of the chill night air as he emerged onto the deck. The scents of salt and fish greeted him, immeasurably preferable to the stale odors of spilled gin and unwashed clothes which hung about the cabin he’d left behind.

New night, same old story, he murmured, crossing to lean on the rail of the small ship on which he and his half-brother had booked passage two days before, after wearing out their welcome in yet another land on their seemingly endless journey through the world. Though one bottle’s better than two, I suppose. At least rationing it out makes the money last longer, and Nathaniel hasn’t started shouting at me that it’s his money and what right do I have to keep it from him…

A soft cough from his left made Jonathan jump. I beg your pardon, sir, he said apologetically. I didn’t mean to intrude.

On the contrary. I should have said something when you walked up. The man turned to face Jonathan, drawing back the hood of his crimson overrobe far enough that his youthful features and the blue-tinted glasses he wore could be seen. I apologize if I startled you.

Perfectly all right, Master Yuri. Jonathan bowed slightly in acknowledgment of his fellow passenger, who’d introduced himself at embarkation as a scholar from the northern land of Tonadel, then turned back to gaze out across the water. It’s a lovely night, isn’t it? he asked absently, letting his eyes rove from the sea with its slight wavelets to the rich black of the sky above with its millions of twinkling lights. I don’t mind cities during the daytime, but even palaces and churches aren’t as beautiful to my eye as the stars and all the tales they have to tell us.

Are you a student of mythology and folktales, then? Master Yuri leaned one elbow against the rail. What attracts you about them? I’m simply curious, he added when Jonathan glanced at him. If you’d rather not answer, you don’t have to. But it’s always interested me, the reasons why we like what we like, and a passage onboard ship allows me to gratify that curiosity about people I might not otherwise meet.

I don’t know that there’s any real reason for it. Gazing upwards, Jonathan picked out the two star-forms of the hero named the Brave Traveler, one a child and the other a man, standing on either side of the Princess of Wisdom, her hand upraised to cast her golden magic. I suppose I appreciate how simple things are in stories. People are either good or bad, heroes or villains. You don’t have to guess, or wonder, or question. You just have to pick the right side and cheer for it. And even when the heroes’ plans go wrong at first, things always turn out all right in the end. Absently, he raised a hand to rub at his right cheek. Besides, in stories, everything happens for a reason. No one has stupid accidents that don’t mean anything.

Oh, you might be surprised. Master Yuri chuckled under his breath. How do you know the people in the stories didn’t have their share of stupid accidents, and the chroniclers simply didn’t bother writing them down? And don’t get me started on how creative most historians get with omens and foretellings and premonitions. Something as ordinary as a soldier tripping over a pebble can be turned into a sign from above, if the person recording the events tries hard enough.

I could see that. Jonathan nodded thoughtfully. If, say, you knew that the soldier who tripped over the pebble on the first day of the war would later be unable to carry out his orders because he’d injured himself by tripping and falling, and that would change the outcome of a major battle. Hindsight is always perfect, as they say. He shrugged his shoulders. Still, it’s disheartening sometimes how much our lives are governed either by random chance or by forces beyond our control. Heroes in stories at least have the chance to shape their own futures, and the rest of ours as well.

Don’t feel too envious. Master Yuri smiled one-sidedly. Shaping the future is a lot of pressure, and all the more so when you know everyone is watching you. Isn’t it simpler to live a quiet life, affecting only yourself and the people around you with your choices?

Maybe if everyone thought like that. But some people don’t. Jonathan resisted the urge to look behind him at the hatch. And as long as you have those who only think about what they want for themselves, who either don’t or can’t care what their choices do to the people around them— He cut himself off, appalled by what he’d been about to say. Please excuse me, sir, he said stiffly. I spoke out of turn.

You don’t have to apologize to me. Master Yuri lowered his hood all the way, letting it rest on his shoulders. Even in the faint illumination from the stars and the one lantern hanging above the hatch, his untidy hair showed faint shades of its vivid red, almost as bright as the hue of his clothing. Anyone could see what it is you go through with that young man. Your brother, is he? Or no, he corrected himself before Jonathan could. Half-brother. If you don’t mind a guess.

I can’t see how it could be a secret. Jonathan gestured at his own clothing, sturdy and well-made but in no way fashionable. The two of us, looking this much alike, but with one the master and one the servant. Not exactly a new story, or a surprising one. And I could have been much worse off. I never went cold or hungry, not as a child, not now, and Nathaniel doesn’t hate me or resent my existence. If you catch him in the right mood, he might even admit he likes me. He smiled once. The year we were seven, we decided to play a joke on everyone at Christmas. We spent the entire twelve days swapping places at will, taking turns being the heir and the pageboy. But it turned out the joke was on us. Not a single person noticed what we’d done.

Really? Master Yuri raised an eyebrow. So that must have been before you were hurt.

Yes. Jonathan massaged his right cheek again, feeling the familiar texture of scar tissue under his fingers. That happened the next year. A fall onto some sharp rocks in a creek. I was lucky. My eyes weren’t injured, and my mother had enough herb knowledge to keep the cuts from turning sour. And why I’m babbling on at you like this, I don’t know, he finished, shaking his head at his own garrulousness. You can’t possibly be interested in the life story of a total stranger from a little country halfway around the world from here.

Ah, but I’m always interested in stories. Master Yuri slipped his hands into the pockets of his robe. Stories are my business. The ways they unfold, the ways they touch one another, the ways they can be changed. His eyes, just visible through the tinted lenses, rested thoughtfully on Jonathan. How would you change yours, if you had the power? If you could wave a wand, or wish on a star, and have whatever you wanted?

Oh, I don’t know. Jonathan laughed a little, turning to gaze up at the sky once more. Maybe swap places with Nathaniel, the way we used to do. I could use the rest, and he’d get a better idea what it’s like dealing with him all the time. Or maybe I’d find us a place we could settle down for a while. Possibly even forever. Travel’s all well and good, but we’ve been on the road for more than two years, and we’ve never stayed anywhere longer than a month. And, of course, if I could get him to… He trailed off. Well, some things even wishing can’t do. I’ve taken up enough of your time for one night, sir. Thank you for listening.

It was my pleasure. Master Yuri glanced up at the stars. If this wind holds fair, we should arrive in the realm of Olechna around midday tomorrow. A lot of different peoples live together there, which means the land as a whole celebrates many wintertime festivals and traditions. He looked over his shoulder at Jonathan, smiling. They’re just getting started now, but the season really reaches its peak with the twelve days between Midwinter and the new year. It might be worth finding a place to stay and sample the fun until then.

That’s good to know, sir. Jonathan bowed. Thank you.

Once again, my pleasure. Master Yuri turned back to his study of the sky, and Jonathan descended the ladder once more, ducking through the doorway at the bottom with a silent sigh. Nathaniel lay sprawled on the lower bunk, exactly as Jonathan had left him, half-dressed and cuddling an empty bottle against him like a child’s toy. The light brown curls which were his and Jonathan’s shared inheritance from their father draped across his face, partially hiding the raised red scars which ran across his forehead and down his right cheek. One of the ship’s cats had slipped into the cabin at some point, and now blinked scornful yellow eyes at Jonathan from her place at Nathaniel’s feet.

Some days I wish I hated you, brother, Jonathan murmured, crossing the cabin with care. Life would be so much simpler that way. He snorted a quiet laugh. Of course, if I hated you, I’d be long gone and you’d probably be dead in a ditch somewhere. Instead of which, here we are. He drew a blanket up over Nathaniel, spooking the cat into flight, and deftly slid the bottle from his brother’s grasp, slipping it into a bag in the corner to keep company with its fellows. Here we are, and not all the wishing in the world can change that.

But if it could. Jonathan toed off his boots, set them on either side of the bag, and clambered up to the bunk above Nathaniel’s. If there were some way to make that dream a reality. To help Nate find the man he used to be, the man I can still glimpse in him sometimes, underneath all that anger and pain and the drink he uses to drown them…

As if he’d accept any real help from me. He leaned away from his bunk to open the glass slide and blow out the lantern. When I’m the reason any of this happened to him in the first place.

Still, I suppose it’s the right time of year for miracles.

Whoever’s listening, he whispered into the darkness, settling himself under the bedcovers. If you’re really out there. I’d be willing to do pretty much anything, short of mayhem or murder. However hard it is, I promise I’ll do it. He closed his eyes and turned onto his side, envisioning the starry sky above, with a streak of light shooting across the heavens on which he could wish. Just help me find the way to save my brother.

Passing by the crossroads between dreams and waking, he could have sworn he heard someone laugh quietly.

* * * * *

By the time Nathaniel woke the next morning, Jonathan had most of the little cabin packed up, the water heated for his brother to wash and shave, and some plain biscuits along with a steaming mug of tea, which he knew from experience was the only breakfast Nate would be able to stomach.

We should be tying up at the dock in about an hour, he said as Nathaniel rolled onto his side, his blue eyes bloodshot and bleary. No reason we shouldn’t disembark here, instead of continuing on. I’m told this place takes its winter festivals seriously, so it may be worth securing a room for the whole month now. If we paid week by week, it might be sold out from under us.

If you think it’s best. Nathaniel winced at even these few words, propping himself up on one elbow. What did I do last night?

Nothing, really. No breakage and no noise complaints, so we should be fine. Jonathan fixed a smile on his face, hoping the sinking feeling in his stomach wouldn’t be too obvious. This question had become a staple of mornings lately, when the Nathaniel he remembered from home had always bragged about having the hardest head in his circle of friends, being able to drink anyone under the table and still remember what he’d been doing the night before.

But he was usually drinking ale or cider when he was out gaming, or wine whenever his mother dragged him to a society party. Since we left Pasaka, it’s been the hardest stuff he can find, or I can find for him. At least if I do the buying, I can be sure he’s not being sold outright poison, and do my best to cut back on the quantities…

Here, he said, shutting off his internal monologue in favor of handing Nathaniel the tea, along with a couple of willow-bark tablets. One good thing about traveling in this part of the world, they don’t look at you strangely when you ask how the tea was made.

And the leaves are fresher than they would be at home, because they don’t have to travel for months to get to us. Nate smiled a little, cupping the tablets in his palm. That’s just like you, Jon. Always finding the best in whatever’s happening.

Somebody has to. Jonathan shrugged. Once we get settled on shore, any thoughts for the day? Or should we just take it easy and have a look around?

All in favor of easy. Nate popped the tablets into his mouth, grimaced at the bitterness, and swiftly washed them down with a sip of the tea. You didn’t stuff a sock in my mouth last night by any chance? Even the willow made it taste better.

Jonathan groaned. You are never going to let that go, are you? It was one time, and we were both thirteen.

Let things go? Nate grinned briefly, showing a flash of the charm that had once made him a welcome visitor in households much more elegant than his parents’ country manor. If I did that, I wouldn’t be me. Which might not be much of a loss to anyone, he added, his mood dropping off as rapidly as it had soared. Don’t lie. You spend half your time wishing I was dead.

I spend all my time wishing you were well, which is not the same thing. Jonathan looked away, unsure how to continue the conversation without escalating the tension further. Look, he said awkwardly.