The Red Book of Wisecraft

By Connor Kerns

Kadge Goodfellow is a spy. He is loyal to the goddess Dia, loves Lady Heloniss, and serves his temple. But his friend Mottle from the rival Hectan cult has found the Blue Book, an ancient book of wisecraft. This has spurred on Kadge's leader to send him across the sea to an old desert city to find the Red Book of Power. Meanwhile, Heloniss and Mottle are visited in the pyramid by the unusual young wiche Blackburse. Soon, however, they are joined by other Hectans fleeing fanatic muddyed. Taking refuge in the pyramid, they are besieged and under constant attack. Meanwhile, Kadge goes into service with a desert tribe and matches wits with the seductive Ina, a wiche from the south also seeking the book. Can Kadge help the tribe overcome their own troubles and win the Red Book? Can it boost the powers of wisecraft and help lift the siege? The Red Book of Wisecraft blends elements of fantasy, science fiction, romance, and the flavor of Shakespeare's dialogue. It is the second in "The Three Books of Wisecraft" series, which began in The Blue Book of Wisecraft and concludes in The Black Book of Wisecraft.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Connor Kerns
• Release date: Jul 29, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005536404

Connor Kerns

Connor lives in Portland, Oregon. He started writing poetry at the age of 11, and his first published poetry book was Image Made Word (1990, Roan LTD).He got up the nerve to start e-publishing novels in 2020, and the following titles are available: The Hero of Houston, an eco-thriller; Measure Her, a comedy-romance; Blue Blossom, a historical memoir set in World War II; and a sci-fi/fantasy trilogy, The Three Books of Wisecraft series.Premieres of play adaptations of Jane Austen novels, Persuasion and Northanger Abbey, were produced by Quintessence: Language & Imagination Theatre, where he was Artistic Director. Other productions of his plays include: Pride and Prejudice, The Child is Father of the Man, Face Reader, and Treatment (Quintessence); A Bawdy Tale (Montgomery Street Players); Zaney (Arts Equity); I Go to War and Vaward of Pallas 3 (Epicurean); The Folio (CoHo) and Where No Storms Come (Stark Raving Theatre).He is also a director, having received his MFA in Directing at the University of Portland, and he taught acting for 24 years. His book Imaginative Doing, Collected Essays on Acting was published in 2013.

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The Red Book of Wisecraft

Second of The Three Books of Wisecraft Series

Connor Kerns

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2021 Connor Kerns

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this ebook. The Red Book of Wisecraft remains the copyrighted property of the author, Connor Kerns, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoy this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy. Thank you for your support.

Part First: PrimyCross, Globe Year 1777

"First Mistress, what binds us to power? Whither are we bound if not for knowledge? The year of the goddess is dying. Some thing has been found. Some things hidden are sought. It is your words that shall bear out what stories I will tell the coming year: stories where wisdom availed…or wars."

(Mythmaker’s siege letter to Gara Doon.)

Chapter 1, Kadge Sent

The ruddy sunset painted the desert sands….KADGE awoke before the dream ended and before hands clapped on his shoulders—in fact he awoke the instant the door swept open and chilled the room even more, though he did not resist because he recognized the mint smell. All of the Guardian class kept mint on their person because it curbed hunger, according to Dian lore, and many of their cult’s stories told about times of famine and journeys with little food. Dians had always been wanderers. 'We spread our ways across Globe,' was the proud saying. So unlike the Zo followers confined to the far south, or the Hectans on Prosper, in Weki and Nom. Thus, Kadge knew these were not muddyed sacking his dormitory during the winter night…but he did not know why he would be so roughly roused before first light.

Come, Servant Goodfellow, a voice ordered quietly in Weki, the guardian releasing his grip almost immediately. His accent was not that of Prosper Isle. The armed guardians standing in his chamber, one holding a bright lamp, were strangers. Kadge guessed they wanted to clap chains on him to lead him away, for they surely knew about his fighting skills; their bodies could be seen tensed up beneath their cloaks. Fear mingling with the mint and lamp oil smelled unpleasant.

I come, Kadge murmured in Tamian, indicating it was the usual language at Three Handmaidens Temple. He let the proverb slip out, Soft words avert war.

He threw on his own cloak, pulled up quick his breeches and boots, flexing his ankle to confirm the kat dagger's hidden readiness. Dutifully, he followed them out of his bedchamber.

They moved quietly through the dormitory hall to the rear doorway and out into the night air. They shuffled onto hard ground, passed the dining hall, kitchen, and the onion-domed Temple toward a small, lonely building: the prison. Now Kadge’s danger sense flared. The lonely place stood between the temple and the rectory but behind the stables. On either side could be seen the gardens and the road, a grove of evergreens shading it from the northern blasts. The ground softened; deep grooves and hoofprints arced in front of the thick prison doors. Strangers from Weki had come to Prosper, by stealth--for he hadn't heard them. But why here? Dians didn't use prisons! And no old proctor to shield him…would the new Head Minister take his part? Would he be punished for letting Heloniss Prose go free? Or for aiding Lease Mottle in his escape from Weki because the man was a member of a rival cult? Or for failing to find the mysterious ‘Blue Book’?

These few buildings and well-tended grounds had been Kadge’s home for ten years. He felt little fondness for home just now. Sputtering lanterns askew in the night breeze illuminated their exhalations as they mounted the porch. One of the guardians surged ahead and knocked; the doors swung open and they entered a small receiving area, cramped with a large contingent of guardians in green standing at attention. Odors from bodies and a warm smoky fire created a resinous smell. After the doors banged shut, a powerful female voice commanded in Weki from somewhere out of view: Bring the sprag fellow.

His proctor had called him 'sprag' when he completed his training. As best as he could ever tell, it was an old title within Dia's cult. What did it mean now, he wondered? How was he to be of use?

An opening formed and an officer gestured abruptly, his white-gloved hand soiled and wet. The Tamian proverb jumped up in his mind: By imperfection, know them. Only the highest ranks in Dia’s cult wore white gloves. The cult was outwardly egalitarian, but subtle signs designated the hierarchy, and this was an important officer serving someone still more important.

Kadge heard the shifting and creaking of the guardians’ pilches behind him, then he was through a doorway into an inner chamber he didn’t recognize, his feet stopping at a twig mat before a well-built woman. The officer’s gloved hand pressed down on his shoulder and Kadge knelt. He took in the worthy lady's leather armor and crown decorated by a green spray of feathers. Animal fur encircled her neck--a cougar pelt. She asked in a husky voice, Know you who I am?

He was awestruck and bowed deeply. At the end of the bow, he found his voice. Hail to you, Lady. By guess, you are Matriarch Tamoar.

Know you why I have come, Servant? Before he could respond, she continued, Why I venture forth from my great city over winter seas to stand on your lank isle?

He hesitated, aware of the quiet officer still standing behind him. Dare I speak my thought, Matriarch?

Her eyes flashed, there was a creak of leather and a footstep, a door closing, silence in the chamber. We are alone. Her tone was peremptory.

I beheld your army in the field south of Sut, he said after taking a deep breath and settling back on his heels. Merely weeks past. Therefore, you may be here for some war-like reason, for I know muddyed still range on Prosper.

Sprag fellow indeed. We routed the dogs at Sut’s gates. With grievous loss. Perhaps if we travel beyond this temple, we may fight them again on your island.

Kadge was relieved to hear Prosper might be made safe again for Heloniss. How many nights since their parting had he awakened at this very hour, fearing for her safety, wondering about Mottle’s estate, desiring to go and seek news but always kept busy at the Temple? Like a prisoner.

We have never seen muddyed in Weki. Why are the dogs so named?

Kadge brought his mind to Zo’s priest assassins. He did not know anything about their origins—Heloniss might. Scarce know I of the ways of Southerns, Matriarch. Maybe they are muddy fellows at heart. Their tattooed skins make them look bespattered, as I guess.

Well said. What further?

Sure, they sacked a neighboring landholder’s estate before I traveled to Weki earlier in the year. Disguised in our colors to put the blame upon this Temple.

Your priest so reported. Mottle is the man’s name, a devious Hectan. I may see the place myself when the time is ripe.

Kadge dared not contradict her about his friend. And sure, over in Weki, muddyed set fire to Sut. I killed one unawares, but I have seen them in battle and they are skilled and fearsome. She gave no sign about the damage to her city, so he went on. Or, you have come because you seek the Book I was sent to find.

At that, her lips tightened and her voice turned rough: You speak Weki well enough.

My old proctor… He trailed off on purpose. Tamoar, the leader of all Dians, here to speak with him? She sought knowledge about the books, and in a state of war handled all matters with extra caution. He measured her reaction so far—her jaw pulled to one side, a corner of her lip pinched. No, he did not trust her face, he decided. He waited.

Her mouth twisted into the semblance of a smile. Servant Goodfellow, she said, her beads clicking together because she was beckoning him to stand. Are you loyal?

My heart is Dia’s, he avowed, relaxing over his feet.

May Dia keep you, she intoned, crossing his heart.

At this blessing, Kadge felt a familiar comfort, which he first received when the old proctor took him in, tired and hungry, an exile from his father’s house. He owed this temple his happiness, didn’t he? And his mind-wrecked brother did, too, stolen away when his father was from home and brought safely here. All these years, Dians housed them and cared for them and schooled them. In truth, the Dians and his brother were all his family. But, he considered further: his old proctor was gone, a new minister ruled Three Handmaidens, and Tamoar was no mother. He looked at her in her warlike attire: a vicious great aunt, visiting from another land, whose command he was bound to follow. No, no: he didn't like her.

What would you do for Dia, our mother? Her voice tone was condescending. She who feeds us, makes us grow and thrive?

I am a servant, he replied, the stock response of any Dian.

You traveled far. I deem you spriteful. Our priest made report, but trade with me from your own mouth what you kenned. He heard how lightly she tried to stress ‘kenned', but he sensed awful tension straining in it like a hand shaking before the order to throw the knife.

He saw a chance to boost his friend's status. I learned even little more but than to believe Lease Mottle… He paused--best to be delicate about Hectans. This Prosper noble had found some thing before we met in Weki, though I know not if it was the book the minister sent me to find. His companion, Heloniss Prose, I learned is no wiche, though the minister vowed she was. And that she knew less of any Book, its use, or purpose, than I.

You believe them? Kadge nodded. Where think you…the book lies?

He protected his friends with the broad statement, I know not. Would Mottle not give over any such to his Chief Priestess if he found it?

Hectans call her First Mistress, Tamoar supplied at last. Her name is Gara Doon. Fah, she be cruel and treacherous. Hectans! Mark you, Hectans are not to trust. Kadge blinked at the hatred in Tamoar’s voice. He had never heard a Dian say anything so harsh about a Hectan before. You have no more to say than this, Servant Goodfellow? she continued after a short time.

He looked directly in her eyes, unsure whether this was permitted of a mere Servant when alone with the Matriarch, but he must understand her motives. She called him 'sprag': was she aware of the feat he had accomplished by tracking Heloniss across the sea and across half of Weki? His success astonished him, thinking of it. He had nearly drowned, starved, and been imprisoned, not to mention tortured to death. Was this the extent of Dian understanding and gratitude for his service?

Despite Tamoar's prowess as a warrior, he could draw his secret blade and kill her before she could defend herself. He visualized the push dagger stitched cleverly in his boot; the Weki vendor had called it a kat dagger but had not divulged its origin. Now he recalled the motions required should he need to kill her: thrust out his right leg to the side while at the same time bending his ankle and sweeping his right hand to grasp the now-protruding small handle at the calf and thrusting with up-rising fist and punching the blade into her heart. Then, he blinked: why should this foul fancy come to mind? He might be capable, but he was loyal first!

Matriarch! he said abruptly, I beg you to believe me, Lady Heloniss is no wiche. She does not belong to Mottle’s cult. And for his part, Mottle is an honorable man. Sure our enemy is the Southern folk, the followers of Zo? Our enemy are muddyed, not Hectans.

Tamoar blinked and her face flushed. Enter! she called out, the small chamber door opened, the officer and two guardians appeared. Kadge regained his composure after the briefest surprise, and he bowed low. He looked up to see Tamoar staring at him, her shoulders rising and falling quickly—angry! Then, she gestured and others tugged at him: down a narrow hall, a stair, an open door, a dirt-floored cell without any blanket and only the feeblest dawn light stabbing cracks in the ceiling, the door clanging shut.

He stood bewildered. He had been inside the dungeon once during a visit by dignitaries from Tamia. The guests were too numerous for the dormitory or rectory, and the old proctor had bedded the servants in some of the cells. After the footsteps receded, he heard a voice:

What though you are hungry? Not angry hungry, a hungry hungry, you see? Name that hungriness. Heh. Kadge recognized the voice and its patter—his eldest brother, Hawker.

I am hungry too, brother, he called out.

If you are brother, name me another. Heh! Kadge chuckled. Why bother, brother? Watch yourself, for ho…you cannot watch me!

You speak aright. We must complain together in the dark, Kadge affected cheer.

May I so? came the rasped reply.

With all your heart! Know you not your Kadger?

Pilliwinks, Hawker moaned. Why, Kadger?

Kadge felt the blood heat up his face and ears: Tamoar torture his feeble brother!? Have they done you harm? Dear brother say to me, are you hurt?

My hands how they cry. My hands, not my heart. And the moaning continued. These hands, their bawling will never let sleep.

Late afternoon, Tamoar’s same two guardians returned to Kadge’s prison door. Servant Goodfellow, the Matriarch will dine with you, one said in Weki. Come to your bathe and change clothes.

Feed my brother, too, or I will not feel at ease, he demanded quietly. One guardian nodded. Have you tortured him? Was it by your hand? The fellow’s eyes darted away but he did not answer Kadge’s probing gaze. Kadge shifted to the other’s face. My mind is apt, he said. I know where it is you live in Weki. And I can track a beast in any weather. He paused. One day marjoram, the next day allium. They did not seem to know the proverb, but neither looked comfortable that he had said it.

Tamoar had exchanged her mail shirt and fur for a heavy gown, a green so dark as to seem black. Despite shedding her head-gear, she was still larger than Kadge, with broad shoulders and bare muscular arms. She spoke seldom as they ate