The Silver Sigil: Origins, #1

By M.S. Verish

Book One of the Origins Saga

 

Strange omens in the skies and empty villages speak of otherworldly invasion, but there is no sign of the enemy. The Nemelorean oracles look to an exile for help, but Kariayla has her own troubles in Mystland. Working beneath a corrupted government, she learns there is more to her role than studying ancient magic.

 

When her daughter, Chara, is kidnapped by her own people, Kariayla reluctantly aligns herself with infamous criminals Wraith and Scorch, who enable her escape from Mystland. Their pursuit takes them to Nemeloreah's border, where the true enemy is waiting. Kariayla learns there is much more at stake than the life of her daughter.

 

Meanwhile, the White Demon has publicly murdered the Minstrel and becomes entangled in an unexpected journey. Forced to travel with his enemies, he suspects the little girl in their company is more than a mere hostage, and their destination will bring him to a point where the past and the future collide in a catastrophic battle.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Night Apple, LLC
• Release date: Feb 14, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386312482

M.S. Verish

M.S. Verish, better known as Matthew and Stefanie Verish, are co-authors as well as husband and wife. They knew they were destined for marriage when they could write together without killing each other. Their writing partnership has rewarded them with wonderful journeys into the realm of fantasy, culminating in their epic world, Secramore. The couple shares a love of nature and art and lives in Northeast Ohio with their Kirin and large family of cavies.

Book preview

World MapNorthern Map

PROLOGUE

Mynko had never seen a sky such as this. Rusty scarlet plumes of clouds rolled outward across a soured yellow haze, like drops of blood in a bowl of cold sulfur water. The priestess kept glancing upward too, and that was cause for concern if ever he felt one. His sole purpose was to protect her, but the grip upon his sword was becoming less from resolve and more from fear.

The Great Spirits were unhappy. Everyone knew it, but few dared speak of it aloud and on the streets. They saved their prayers for the sanctity of the temples, as if the holy walls would hold strong against a tumbling mountain or rain of black lightning. Black lightning. Mynko would not have thought it possible had he not seen it himself. Dark and jagged tears in the sky did not precede any bellowing thunder. No, these bolts were silent, like fingers prying into the mountains from a hole in the sky. Not even the Supreme Oracle could interpret them; she had fallen silent months ago, closing the door to her chamber and walling herself within.

Word of other strange phenomena trickled in from other mountain villages. All but Windpeak, which, like the oracle, had gone silent. Windpeak was the southwestern bastion of Nemeloreah, with a watchtower carved from the sacred mountain itself. The bell within never sounded, and there were no messengers bringing word of threat or tragedy. At last the mandate came to investigate, and when Mynko volunteered, he had felt proud to serve so important a mission. This was, in fact, his first mission in the Skyguard, and now he wondered if it might be his last.

He slowed his pace as the trail opened, and Windpeak came into view. The city was nestled in the valley, shadowed by the adjacent peak that stood against the sullied sky like a dull blade rooted in the earth. No light flickered from the tower, and no smoke rose from city chimneys. There was no sound but the wind, no motion save for a soaring hawk that was soon devoured by clouds.

Priestess Starlin of Stormlight came to stand beside him, her veiled gaze seeming to see more than the empty streets.

What do you make of it, Mistress? Mynko asked, watching her carefully.

At first she said nothing, then nodded to the path into the valley. Keep your weapon ready.

They descended silently but without any concealment. Mynko’s thoughts reeled. The priestess had said more than enough. The pall over Windpeak was not plague; it was an enemy unseen. One that had silenced a city without warning—one that waited in the darkened hollows—watching. Unless she was wrong. Mynko wanted her to be wrong, but his instincts begged him to flee. The priestess had made her assessment; they should leave now to report Windpeak’s fate.

As if reading his thoughts, she set a hand on his shoulder. As soon as he turned to face her, he looked away, ashamed of his cowardice. They had been sent to gather information, and they had not yet set foot in the empty streets. The bell, she murmured, and he lifted his head toward the mountain tower. If all else fails….

Numbly Mynko nodded, forcing his heavy feet onward. Every darkened window, doorway, and corner that they passed, he felt his heart pound a little faster. It was what he expected but did not see that unnerved him most. The homes and shops were intact. There were no bodies, no signs of any struggle or conflict. It was as though everyone had simply vanished.

Mynko stopped, feeling as though an icy blade had run him through. White-knuckled, he clutched the hilt, prying into the shadows until he thought he glimpsed a candle flickering in one of the shop windows. He squinted, and the candle moved.

Only to flash as two flames. Not flames at all… His breath caught. Eyes. Priestess… he whispered.

Too late, she gasped, and he saw her veiled face turning in every direction around them. What looked like eddies of black smoke surrounded them, growing darker and larger the longer Mynko stared.

The bell, the priestess mouthed, just before the shadows moved in to smother her. She shrieked and screamed, and Mynko could see nothing—nothing until the sounds of tearing and cracking were followed by the ejection of bloodied feathers from the abysmal wall.

He did not wait for the shadows to come to him. He bolted down the street and spread his wings. In another moment, he was airborne, lifting on the wind to leave the wretched city behind him. Thermals carried him up the mountainside, to the tower and the bell inside. He had failed to protect the priestess; he would not fail to alert his people to the faceless danger lurking in the tomb of Windpeak.

Haunted by the sounds of her horrific end, Mynko had to force himself to slow his breathing and focus on the task at hand. He lighted inside the archway of the tower and faced the massive bell inside. It was spell-cast, enhanced by magic as the mold was cast. The metal was a secret, as were the spells that made it light enough for one warrior to send it pealing. He had been told that the sound would carry to the adjacent towers without rupturing his eardrums—so long as he remained within the bell chamber. Hands trembling, he took the rope, about to learn the truth.

He jumped, and the bell swung with ease, gathering momentum as he tugged and released the tension. The bell chamber was virtually silent, and Mynko had to convince himself that it was doing just as it was intended to do. The sound would carry the warning until he was able to return and report what he had seen. He did not know how many peals issued from the tower, but when it seemed all of Secramore should have heard it, he stopped and tried to catch his breath. With no lack of eagerness, his thoughts were already heading home.

Except that it was growing dark too quickly. The sickly sky was fading fast around him, but not because of a setting sun. Four walls of black smoke grew thick around him and the bell, and Mynko froze. It was not possible that he had been followed. It simply was not….

He shrank where he stood as the shadowy forms closed in, luminous, feral eyes centered on him. He reached for his sword, but in his hasty escape, he must have dropped it in the street. He gave one choked cry before he was devoured.

1

THE WRAITH

W hat is the meaning of this interruption? Lord Jemmond Merrit glared at his servant, mistaking the man’s pallor as a response to his rising temper. I am occupied with my guests.

Your pardon, milord, but you have other guests at the door. The servant squirmed and looked at his feet.

Merrit took him by the arm, determined to keep his composure until they had left the hall and the festivities for the silence of the foyer. Everyone I have invited has already arrived. Anyone else who appears at my door is not welcome here tonight. You will send them away.

I—I do not think that wise, milord. They are not here for the ball.

Merrit shoved the servant against the wall. Your audacity will see you flogged. I do not care why—

‘The Ghost walks tonight,’ the servant spilled, covering his head. That is the message, milord. They said you would know what it means. They are waiting for you.

Merrit lowered his hand and released the servant’s coat. ‘The Ghost…’ This is not the time. Have them come back tomorrow.

They were most insistent that they wait for you, milord.

With a sigh and a turn toward the door, Merrit waved at the servant. Show them in. I will handle this matter personally.

The door opened, and two rain-soaked guests stepped inside. If Merrit ever doubted the rumors, he now found the truth staring back at him with abysmal eyes. This was him—the legendary Wraith. At first glance, he might be ghastly. A corpse would match his ashen complexion, and those eyes were the black pieces on the unreadable chessboard of his face. The color had been leeched from his hair and the beard around his grayish lips, but he did not seem a man yet in his middle years. Second glance revealed that he was not a corpse but an actual man—a man of wealth, judging by the embroidery of his high-collared jacket and his polished boots. He was dressed in gray and silver, a ghost by design if not by death itself. There was a sword sheathed at his side, but the tales said he seldom employed it. Of what use were blades when curses were as effective?

Wraith motioned to his counterpart, who might well have been the one to polish his boots. This man was short and stocky, darker in complexion, and clad in black. One could wear a noble’s clothes, but a thief carried himself like a thief, and that was exactly what Merrit suspected this man to be.

Merrit flashed his classic veneer smile. Welcome, welcome! You can see that I am in the midst of a gathering of sorts, and I had not anticipated your company tonight.

We don’t come announced, Wraith said.

Merrit turned away from his eerie gaze. Of course not. I merely meant to say that I was not prepared for your visit, and if you are staying in the area overnight, I would be ready to accommodate you in the morn—

Wraith shook his head. Tonight is tonight. We can wait. He started for the hall.

Merrit rushed in front of him. I know your time is valuable, but if it suits you, mingle with my guests. There is food and wine in abundance. He waved to the servitor bearing the ewer, ignoring the curious expressions of the lords and ladies in the room. They had fallen silent at the appearance of the strangers, and Merrit pointed a dagger of a finger at the gawking musicians. Immediately the quartet began anew, covering the awkward moment like lace over a splintered table.

Wraith nodded. We’ll be waiting.

Merrit watched in dismay as the duo infiltrated his ball. He drummed his fingers on the wall anxiously, trying to decide the best course of action. He found his servant watching him. Keep an eye on them, he instructed. If they become too friendly with my guests, distract them with some drinks. I need to visit the cellar.

The servant bowed and went to shadow the intruders. Merrit thundered down the stairs to the cellar, candle in hand, knowing that a room full of torches would not grant him the sight he wished would greet him. He moved to the spice pantry, producing his key and flinging open the doors. He reached for a small leather bag hidden toward the back of the shelf—the last of a treasure that might have granted him mercy this night. Given the rarity of the Enhancement, he might still earn some leniency from Wraith and his wealthy thieves.

He closed and locked the pantry, throwing a venomous glance at the bucket-sized pile of inert white dust sitting beside it. He cursed and stomped back up the stairs. Wraith was seated near the hearth, and he had taken his liberties with the refreshments. A ghost he was not with such an appetite. The boot-polisher was exactly where Merrit hoped he was not: flirting with a group of women.

With a breath, Merrit summoned his smile and snatched a cup of wine from the cupbearer. He sprinkled a pinch of the black dust from the bag into the wine and headed in Wraith’s direction. I thought you might enjoy this, seeing as it is difficult to come by now, Merrit said, handing him the cup.

Wraith hardly glanced at it before it was greedily consumed. Is there more? he asked.

Not enough to satisfy, I am afraid, Merrit said. I am a victim of the Dark Wizard. He has destroyed all but this. He made the mistake of holding up the bag.

Wraith held out his hand, his dark eyes affixed to the object.

Would this satisfy you? Merrit asked, grudgingly relinquishing the last of his Enhancement.

This is all very nice, but it’s not what I came for.

Merrit stiffened. If I might speak frankly… I cannot give you the contract tonight. My signature is valid, but I have not been able to convince my brother to relinquish his share of the earnings. I have tried, and I think he may relent with time. But it is time I need.

They gave you time. Lots of time, Wraith said. He pocketed the bag but pushed the platter of food away. We know you were hoping we’d settle for your share. We know you were going to keep what your brother would give you.

You know no such thing, Merrit said, his face heating.

Wraith stared at him, humorless. The Guild knows. We visited your brother, and his story didn’t match yours.

There was a moment of seething silence, Merrit doing his best to keep his tone level when he spoke. "I am insulted by your implications. You show up at my door, interrupt my private gathering, partake of my courtesy and refreshment—rob me of the last of my Enhancement—and then call me a liar… You will leave. Now."

I can’t do that, Wraith said. He was standing now. Give us what we came for. If you don’t, you’ve only got yourself to blame.

I told you to leave! Merrit shouted, finally breaking his composure. In the glaring silence that followed, he pointed toward the door. Every pair of eyes was upon them; no one stirred.

Wraith only shrugged and gestured to his companion, who promptly exited the manor. The infamous Ghost began to stroll around the room with casual disregard for host and audience. He picked up a delicate, glazed vase and opened his fingers. It dropped and shattered with a few ambient gasps. Wraith swiped a platter of desserts to the floor and trod through it, leaving footprints of jelly, cake, and honey as he moved on. He poured a ewer of wine upon the carpet, put his knife to an oil portrait of Merrit’s father, and started tearing at the woven crest that spanned almost an entire wall.

It had taken Merrit this long to recover his speech from the shock of Wraith’s audacity. What are you doing? he roared but did not wait for an answer. He rushed at the ashen man with the intent of tackling him to the ground, forgetting the reason for this thief’s notoriety. Merrit slipped on a patch of jelly and twisted his ankle. He howled in pain, shouting at the servants to take action against the intruder. The one who had been tending the fire withdrew from his position too soon; the log he had been turning rolled onto the floor and then to the rug where Wraith had spilled the wine. The material smoldered and ignited almost immediately, and one guest attempted to stomp the flames before they could spread. In doing so, the edge of his cape caught fire, and the panicked gentleman twisted and squirmed until he managed to fling the article from his shoulders. New flames rose, and with them spread pandemonium amongst the attendees. They pushed and crowded toward the door, but their exit was stuck.

Merrit watched it all from the floor, through the rising smoke. The legend was intact; the destruction of the infamous curse remained. Wraith was gone.

The evening sky melted into night, a relentless cascade of early spring rain. Wraith plodded his way through the puddles to the waiting carriage and his cohort within. No sooner than he was inside, he withdrew the bag containing the Enhancement and began to inspect it.

That could’ve gone better.

Wraith did not lift his head. It went how it went. He could’ve avoided this if he wanted to.

Knew you were gonna say that. The stocky thief sighed. Just wondered if it ever gets to you.

It doesn’t.

The rain filled the silence between them as the carriage rolled on. It stopped at a small inn on the brink of the next village. The dining area was nearly vacant, and the few who were present kept clear of Wraith and his shadow. This solitude did not last, however, as the next guest through the door was a petite and comely woman with dark hair, ruby lips, and green eyes with a sharp regard. She spotted the pair instantly and headed for their table.

Shalana’s here, Wraith’s shadow grumbled, just before the woman seated herself next to him, across from Wraith. The initial silent communication was through their mutual glances.

There was a short, impatient sigh. Merrit didn’t give it. We had to go without it. The stocky thief took a long drink from his tankard and glared at the woman.

That’s too bad, Scorch, but we knew he wouldn’t budge, she said, though her attention was on Wraith.

Then why’d we waste our time?

Because we need to uphold a certain standard. She smiled sweetly, and Scorch rolled his eyes and took another drink.

Then you’re here for something else, Wraith said.

The woman nodded and folded her hands upon the table. New mission. I think you’ll like this one.

Wraith shrugged, indifferent.

Who has been your biggest bane? Shalana leaned closer. Who has been the worst thorn in your side and in ours?

Wraith scowled.

We’ve sent some of our best agents after him, and none of them have been able to find him, much less apprehend him.

We’re thieves, not assassins, Scorch cut in.

We don’t want him dead. And seeing as he is a thief himself, you might have an added advantage.

Because of the curse, Wraith confirmed.

The woman smiled.

He’s out of our league, Scorch said. Curse or not.

I think you underestimate your own infamy, Shalana said. And this mission is of the highest importance. You will be generously compensated for your efforts.

If we’re not dead, Scorch muttered.

Nothing will happen to us, Wraith said.

The smile never left her face. Which is why I am here now.

So we really don’t have a choice, Scorch said.

Wraith ignored the comment. What do you want us to do?

Shalana eased back in her chair. Gentlemen, have you ever been to Mystland?

We’re not casters, Scorch said, stating the obvious for her.

That is no longer an obstacle. Let’s say the borders have relaxed their discretion.

Wraith had stopped eating his meal. So he’s somewhere in Mystland.

Perhaps not yet, Shalana said. But we believe he will be. He can’t seem to quit pestering us, and he won’t be able to resist meddling in our investigation in Sorkindara.

He could be there now, or he could be there months from now, Scorch said. You ain’t said anything solid yet.

Because I have yet to finish, she said coolly. We have good reason to believe he will be there for the Minstrel’s concert.

Scorch nearly choked on his ale. The guy with the fiddle? What’s he got to do with anything?

They are past associates, Shalana said. And wherever the Minstrel plays, there is thievery in our ranks. She nodded in response to Wraith’s dark glare. He uses the musician as a distraction to destroy the remaining supplies of the Enhancement.

So you’ve set the trap, and you want us to make sure he gets tangled, Scorch summarized.

Tangled and delivered to us alive.

I said we ain’t assassins, but wouldn’t it be easier to just do him in? Scorch asked.

No, it wouldn’t, she said curtly, leaving no room for questions.

Scorch and Wraith exchanged a glance.

Shalana’s expression softened to honey again. So, gentlemen, are you game?

Wraith downed the last of his drink and met her gaze. When do we leave?

2

APPLE SEEDS AND VILLAINS

Kariayla cleared a spot on the cluttered table in front of her and lit the nearest lantern. She longed for the light of a window—if not to better see what she was studying, then to clear the eerie atmosphere of the darkness that settled in more than just the nooks and crannies of the Cantalereum. After a little over a month of reporting to the abandoned structure, she still could not shake the feeling that she was being watched. Though she had never met the Larini, the pair of witches had been well-known in Mystland. They were authorities on the magic of Light and Shadow, and they were the keepers of all the cantalere that resided in the Cantalereum. The collection was as impressive as it was mysterious, and initially, she had been excited to explore the objects and uncover the tales behind them.

Now, however, she was overwhelmed and not a little disturbed by some of the oddities. Clearly, the weaponry was ill-intentioned, but there were other items that were downright appalling: skulls made of various substances, remains of creatures preserved in jars, twisted skeletons she could not begin to identify, and even a vial of…well, it looked like blood with tiny worms in it. The magic of Shadow was not evil in itself, but any magic was a tool to be shaped by the hands of those who wielded it. Kariayla had started to wonder just what the hands of the Larini had intended.

Both mother and daughter had been reputed for their skill and power, but they had also been reclusive, and they were highly selective of those they chose to entertain or assist. Kariayla also knew that they must have been quite old, for tales of the Larini had persisted for decades—perhaps even a century. There were secrets here—secrets about them, about the Cantalereum itself and all the objects within. She was not sure she wanted to learn even half of them.

One tale that she could not forget, however, was about the Larini’s demise. Not a soul in Mystland remained ignorant of their murder, and not any one version of the tale was less gruesome than another. They were found in the lower most chamber of the Cantalereum…in pieces. Their limbs were found strewn about their mutilated torsos, and their eyeless faces were eternally contorted in death’s final scream. It was an act of a monster—or, as the story went—the act of a demon. The White Demon, to be exact.

Kariayla could not and did not believe it true, despite the fact there was no one else to blame. The White Demon she knew was not a murderer, and she could not begin to fathom why he would have any connection to the witches. Yet at this point, he had already been hunted by all of Mystland for abduction, arson, assault, and theft. With a heavy heart, Kariayla had to accept that she would never learn the truth about what he may or may not have done. The rumors changed to say that he had secretly been apprehended and swiftly executed without any pomp and flourish. That had been seven years ago, and there had not been word of the infamous White Demon since.

That was not to say she did not think of him often. Without even realizing she had done it, she gripped the skystone she wore in a silver chain around her neck. It was, in some ways, fitting that it had not glowed for her since the days she had traveled with the Ravenstone. It reminded her of the other lights that had since grown dark in her life.

While this time in her life was not nearly as bleak as some of the days she had faced then, this was a different sort of pall that had befallen her. Kariayla felt the weight of forces unseen, words left unsaid. Her role in the Cantalereum was not one she had chosen—or even that she believed she had the right to decline. Her own experience with Light and Shadow had landed her here, but she did not know by whose authority. Any questions she had asked were left unanswered, and in fact, she had been strongly discouraged from further inquiry. The fact that she was escorted to and from the Cantalereum, limited with her access inside the space, and guarded from the outside by members of Mystland security did not settle well with her. If there was risk or danger involved, she believed she had a right to know about it. If only she knew who to question….

Was it any coincidence that her strange imprisonment had come to happen contemporary to the opening of Mystland’s borders? Or the fact that large bands of medori left in protest due to new changes in authority? For any medoriate to willingly leave and face the outside prejudice and fear against magic spoke volumes for the growing unrest within the territory.

Kariayla produced her key and opened a small wooden box upon the table. Inside was a red velvet bag, which she gently spilled near the lantern light. Five black pebble-like forms clattered out, glittering as the light struck them. One might mistake them for precious gems, and indeed they were rarer than the rarest. She picked up her hand lens to inspect them for any change. When none was found, she replaced them into the bag, then the box, and sealed them again.

She took hold of Whitestar, anticipating the short-lived freedom of a walk to the old temple. Her two keepers were waiting at the door as she allowed her eyes to adjust to the brightness of the afternoon sun. They flanked her along the grassy path and remained outside as she entered the shrine once dedicated to an ancient water goddess. There was a pool inside, though it had been converted to more of an irrigation system and greenhouse. Ten large pots each housed a sapling, and despite the fact that each young tree was black in color, they glittered with life through their sticklike trunks to the tips of their tender leaves. In the month she had tended them, they had grown with several times the rapidity of any normal apple tree. Therein was her goal: to test these trees and learn of their magic.

Kariayla had assumed the apple seeds had belonged to the Larini, though she could not fathom as to where they had obtained them. Whitestar responded to them curiously—glowing as it would in the presence of Shadow. The Ilangien-wrought staff also pulled her to the trees, and this was an attraction characteristic of Light to other objects of Light. How could these seeds, these trees, be both? Clearly someone suspected this to be true, or she would not be here now, playing the role of an amateur gardener.

As she tended the saplings, the temple filled with a melody hummed through her lips. This was not the first time Kariayla caught herself mimicking the foreign tune. She could not remember its origin, much less any lyrics that might have accompanied it. It was as though someone had dropped it into her head, and in these moments of silence, it played over and over again. This had been the case for a week, perhaps a little longer. The melody was pleasant enough, but it was just one more mystery yet to be solved.

She had nearly finished her assessment when one of the watchmen stepped inside and cleared his throat. She ceased her humming. Is something the matter?

We have been asked to see you home, he said.