The Seer of Grace and Fire: Book 1

By Natsuya Uesugi

A human cleric translating an elfin prophesy must bring the work to the high court at Kannon in faerie before DarkFall, the solemn anniversary when all the male newborns were murdered seventeen years ago. If the translation does not arrive in time, all is lost. Timorn, a seventeen year old ranger travels the human towns, hiring out his services. A mysterious elfin woman hires him to take her to Kannon before DarkFall, and only he can lead her with his purple faerie eyes.

The evil Valkyris is amassing an army to attack Kannon at DarkFall, insisting she possesses the prophecy. Sending her dark mage Dalannin to infiltrate the faerie, he marches his demon hordes toward Kannon and sneaks into the palace. Ethesian, the seventeen year old faerie daughter of King Ailon, plays the dragon lyre, a female magic. Yet recently, she has started having prophetic dreams as if she were male. When a lie is revealed, Ethesian is tasked to study magic she must master before DarkFall. Will Timorn reach Kannon before the Valkyris, and Ethesian master a magic she shouldnt possess? Secrets and lies, revelations and wizardry, DarkFall is coming and so is the reluctant faerie who would be king. Learn more in the first book of the dark fantasy trilogy, The Seer of Grace and Fire.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 19, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543424324

Natsuya Uesugi

Natsuya Uesugi is a systems analyst, a manga artist and a writer. With an MBA in International Management and a minor in Japanese, Natsuya insists on showcasing diversity in his writing. He studied animation in art school and has published three manga. He is the author of the cyberpunk grydscaen series, the fantasy trilogy The Seer of Grace and Fire, and the yaoi series graphic noiz. He enjoys skydiving, cosplay, anime and writing poetry.

Book preview

Copyright © 2017 by Natsuya Uesugi.

Library of Congress Control Number:                  2017907897

ISBN:                        Hardcover                     978-1-5434-2430-0

                                   Softcover                       978-1-5434-2431-7

                                   eBook                            978-1-5434-2432-4

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 06/14/2017

Xlibris

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Contents

Book Dedication

Acknowledgement

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Characters

For more on books by Natsuya Uesugi

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On the Cover

Timorn, the ranger, sitting on the throne in the antechamber of the High Court at the palace in Kannon, the capital of the faerie kingdom of Itheria. All artwork in The Seer of Grace and Fire by Natsuya Uesugi.

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Book Dedication

I dedicate this book to all the gay and transgender students that are bullied and who find school to be difficult every day. As someone who was bullied in high school and college, I retreated into my stories, my journals, and my characters to find solace and my truth. We are all equal. No one can take our dignity and beauty from us. Be who you genuinely are. If you can find that one inspiration that drives you and brings you joy, revel in it. It will sustain you. Everyone’s experience is unique. We are all beautiful, each and every one of us. We all deserve to be who we truly are. No one should ever be bullied for being true to themselves.

To my father, who did not get a chance to read this book. Your courage and achievements were an inspiration. You will be missed.

Acknowledgement

Special thanks to Alexis Woods for her patience, diligence, and hard work as the beta reader for The Seer of Grace and Fire.

Map of the Kingdoms of Arenth

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The City of Kannon, Faerie Capital of Itheria

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Chapter 1

Volumes of aeons past lined the halls of the Ecclesiastical University’s library. The weathered walls of the tower circling the foyer belied their age. Shelves stood five horses high with their wooden sliding ladders draped at various intervals. Dusk’s light shone through a dome-shaped stained-glass window depicting the elven creation story and the goddess. The sun’s rays through the sixteen panels alighted the floor with the glistening tones from their crystalline hues.

Kabal’s hands had long reduced this ladder’s lacquered mahogany wood, leaving it tarnished with fingerprints. The cleric pushed the ladder and stepped onto the bottom rung, riding the ladder as it slid along its way. The creaking sound of the wood against the metal casters rang in Kabal’s ears. It slowed, and he put his weight into it, forcing the ladder to slide a few more centimeters. He climbed the rungs to the second level, his eyes tuned to the volumes. The tattered edges of his black robe caught under his foot as he stepped on them again. He tugged it, pulling the robe out from under his cloth shoe. The robe was too big, the bright red cincture around his waist dull and dirty with ink fingerprints from wiping his hands on it one too many times.

He held on tight as he leaned over, running the blackened index finger of his right hand across the spines of the illuminated manuscripts. The books were cut off by a pile of parchments tied with red bows, their yellowing pages rolled and seated in disarray. Kabal lightly touched the parchments before leaning out farther, reaching for the elven dictionary he sought.

The large book would require two hands to carry. He pulled at it, and dust scattered as he rubbed his eyes. He released his hold on the ladder. With his balance lost, he violently clasped the shelf to steady himself. His movements jostled the book just enough for it to begin to fall from the shelf. He grabbed for it, but alas, he was not fast enough, and it tumbled to the floor.

The book slapped against the marble, the echo deafening in the library’s near silence. The intricate gilded knotwork of the floor tiles lay hidden beneath the tome. Kabal sighed deeply as the librarian picked up the book, her eyes glaring. He gracefully descended the ladder.

Next time, be more careful, the librarian admonished him, handing the book to Kabal as he approached. She had known Kabal since he had come to the university as a novice years ago. She had been his supervisor for his first elven translation and thought him lazy, taking too long with his work. And though her tone was harsh, she seemed to have a soft spot for him, although he hardly obeyed the rules of the library. He infuriated her, defied authority, and refused to be quiet, always loudly scratching out words with his quill and sighing when he came to a difficult passage, slapping the covers of the books closed when he finished with them. She wanted her library kept pristine, and that meant following the rules. He spilled ink on the desk, and she was the one who had to clean it up. She had warned him many times that she would revoke his privileges to the sacred books locked in the vault at the back if he didn’t keep the ink from spilling and the quill in the well.

Thank you, he said, ducking his head in lieu of apologizing. That was careless of me. She got away from me this time.

Kabal took the elven dictionary in two hands and hugged it as if it were a priceless jewel. Once the librarian waved him off, he brought it to the table at the back, where he’d taken up residence. A sickly yellow-orange glow bathed the area from a nearby candle anchored into a metal base. He set the dictionary down and pulled out the chair. It scraped against the floor, alerting the librarian, who once more shot a look of disgust at him. Having been warned yet again, Kabal turned back and sat down to his ink fountain and olive parchment.

His work dragged on laboriously. He had been translating for the better part of the week, eighteen hours a day. His right hand cramped, and he took it in his left and rubbed his fingers, trying to ease the kinks. His index finger and thumb were long stained with indigo from his quill. The glass inkwell sat perched ever so close to the page of parchment.

The five other pages he had already worked on rested in a loose, disorderly pile at the head of the table, the words scattered across the pages. His calligraphy was smooth at times, perfectly angled but lacked form at others, lazily scrawled. The librarian always reviewed his work before she turned the pages over to the cleric that would bind the manuscript. He needed to be diligent. This translation was requested by King Ailon of the Jahnae High Court at Kannon. This was a royal edict. There were no edits. The initial translation had to be right. There was no second chance. His reputation could be ruined if he did a mediocre job.

He flipped open the cover of the dictionary, the leather smooth to the touch. The elaborate stitching on the inner spine showed the care that had been taken by the cleric who had mounted the book, putting the pages together with the cover. Kabal admired the stitching as he turned the pages on the elven tome. The elaborate language of the elven tongue graced the pages. The ink lines were delicate as the simple strokes of the words illuminated the paper.

He opened to the section he needed, looking for the elven word for newborn. His feet tapped against the floor as he read. Placing his middle finger on the parchment page, he slowly moved it down through the words, looking for his target. He did not want the ink on his index finger to tarnish the book as he carefully scanned. The word seemed to leap off the page when he located it. He leaned forward, looking carefully, placing his finger under the word.

The last rays of the afternoon shone weakly through the stained-glass window, making it hard to see. Kabal brought the candleholder closer, ensuring not to tip it and release the wax from its round disk as he looked at the word and read its meaning. He tapped on the entry. This would be the proper word to use. He set the candle down and picked up the quill, returning to the half-written parchment. He brought the end of the white feather quill to his lips, thinking for a moment before committing the sentence to life. The translation had to be perfect.

He thought about the Jahnae word for baby, thought better of it, and selected the word for male child. It would be the proper term and would convey the meaning of the passage. Kabal set the quill to paper and wrote down the word, finishing the sentence. He placed the parchment to the side and pulled out a different page—this one with an intricate drawing of a newborn lying in a basket of straw. The illumination showed not only the child but also a woman in an elaborate robe kneeling at the side, handing the basket over. In one corner of the image stood a man and a woman in baseborn clothing: brusque tunics and stockings with cloth footwear. Kabal studied the whole image for a moment, reclining on his seat. He had completed the illustration this morning and laid the gold leaf right before he finished translating this passage.

The image was finally done, the ink lines written as if in woodblock print.

Kabal slapped closed the elven dictionary and carefully stood, gathering the five parchment sheets. He ordered them based on page numbers at the bottom of each and placed the illumination at the top. Picking up the dictionary, he set the parchment sheets on top and walked them to the circulation desk.

The librarian was seated with her legs crossed and was engrossed in whatever book she held. Her long hair pulled tight in a bun atop her head was a light auburn with streaks of grey sprinkled through. She wore a simple white blouse with cloth eyelet closures and a brown skirt in a heavy twill. Completely unaware of her surroundings, she didn’t see Kabal arrive. He placed the dictionary on the table with a thud, jostling the parchment pages. The librarian bolted upright, her hair falling into her face, loose from the pins that held it in place. Her eyes darted around the room, trying to determine if there was danger. Kabal forced a smile from his lips.

She placed her book down on the counter and glared icily at Kabal as she gathered up her hair nervously behind her head and twisted it in a knot, getting it off her face.

Finished for the day?

Yes, my hand is cramped. I will not be able to write tomorrow if I don’t rest my fingers, he replied, grabbing his right hand and massaging his index finger with the blackened tip.

The librarian huffed and went to the large set of shelves behind the circulation desk. Her movements measured and her back straight, Kabal could tell she had little patience for him this night. He had requested her to fill the inkwell twice, something he could have done with the inventory available to him behind the circulation desk. She thought him lazy, abusing his cleric’s privilege to the library by using its resources at all hours of the day. There were rules to follow. Kabal’s blatant disregard for the etiquette of the library told her he had no concern for how hard her job was, maintaining the thousands of books that were within its walls. On the third shelf from the top, she pulled down a leather folio tied with twine. She placed the folio on the desk and unknotted the white cord. Opening the cover revealed the parchment pages Kabal had already translated. The librarian picked up the new pages he had brought over and added them to the pile, replaced the cover, and retied the twine around the folio, yet again concealing its worldly treasure. Kabal smiled as the librarian put the folio back on the shelf; it would be ready for him the next time he needed it.

I will put the dictionary back for you. No need to bother yourself with it. Will I see you here tomorrow?

Kabal hesitated. His shoulder-length dark hair fell into his eyes as he glanced over, staring off into the library shelves. He thought for a second before turning back.

Tonight. Give me a few hours to rest my hand, then I will be back to work. I cannot leave King Ailon waiting. This has to be done by DarkFall, he said.

The anniversary of DarkFall would occur in fifteen days. Each year, they remembered and mourned the dark hour seventeen years ago when all the male newborns had been killed by the Valkyris. She had cast a spell solidifying her rise to power and plunging the world of Arenth into darkness. The work Kabal was translating was called the Legend of Arden—an elven prophecy. He had been tasked with translating the work into the Jahnae language of the faeries to be brought to King Ailon before DarkFall as a reminder of the devastation.

Kabal took the few steps to the hallway, stopping momentarily to take in the awe-inspiring artwork. The black wooden entrance door of the library reached up to the ceiling with arching dragon carvings engraved into its surface, recessed with a greyish tone, with marble swirls in white and gold underneath the metal hinges. He wondered if he might ever see a real dragon as he returned to his room in the clerics’ dorms.

Kabal, the cleric, in the Ecclesiastical University Library translating the Legend of Arden from elven into Jahnae

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Chapter 2

Timorn toyed with one of his daggers under the round table he was seated at in the back of the pub. The blade, instilled with Jahnae magic—although he had no clue what kind of magic, only that the blade contained it—was no mere fighting weapon. He held the weapon gently by its dark grey hilt, swinging the tip of the silver blade back and forth. The sapphire jewel on the hilt relayed its expense. Feeling the weight of it, he turned it over in his hand.

He scanned the room filled with common folk, thieves, friends having a moment of revelry over drinks, and the various and sundry servers and beer wenches of the establishment. Timorn kept the hood of his cloak over his head, hiding his face, drowned in the shadows of the layers of fabric. The deep green colour marked him as a ranger. His leather tunic, with its cloth and metal closures, was worn. The thin short-sleeved chain-mail shirt underneath added a layer of protection. Made by the elves, the mail was supple and light. It moved with his body as if it were cloth. His leather leggings and solid dark boots graced his limbs close and revealed his lithe muscles.

He was young, only seventeen.

His eyes gleamed in the candlelight from beneath the hood. The door to the pub slammed open, called by the wind that blistered through the opening, spilling dull-coloured leaves onto the floor. A man in black entered. He turned, shutting the door behind him, leaving the night outside. Timorn watched him closely, his purple irises clocking the stranger as he moved inside and sidled up to the bar. Timorn took his dagger from under the table and set it down on top.

A hand slammed down on top of the dagger, a body filling his view. The fingers were long and thin and definitely female.

That dagger contains much power. Common folk like these have no eyes for such things, she hissed. The high pitch confirmed his suspicions of womanliness, and her voice contained a certain inflection, which identified her as a speaker of elven.

Timorn slowly raised his eyes from the hand to the head and was met by the ferocious stare of a she-elf.

The hood of the elven woman’s cloak covered most of her face, yet her eyes shone clearly. She relaxed her muscles and lifted her hand from the dagger. Timorn snatched her wrist and dug his fingernails into her skin. She winced, unprepared for the movement. He held her locked in place, glaring as she struggled to get away.

Release me, she whispered, pulling at his grip, but he held her firmly. Her fitful jerks loosened the hood of her cloak from around her ears. It fell back, revealing her face—bleached skin and sharp angles. Hair cut in short blond wisps fanned her face. It was unusual for an elf to have short hair. It showcased her rebellious nature. Timorn studied her more while her bright pink eyes stabbed him through like knives. She struggled again, still unable to shake him.

He sized her up using skills long honed. She was a fighter—athletic, muscular, but lithe and cunning. Her strong arm showed she was an archer. Her pale skin meant noble born. Her quickness implied thief. He released her and reset himself in the chair before kicking one free from under the table.

Sit. You, I have seen before. If I didn’t know any better, I would say you were following me.

Her eyes narrowed, caught by his accusation. She threw herself into the chair and pushed the cloak back off her shoulders, revealing the tanned hide of a tunic and the leather armguards of an archer.

The she-elf settled, watching the room closely, not wanting to be overheard before leaning in to reveal her missive. What do you know about DarkFall? Her voice sounded like singing to Timorn even though she was speaking the human tongue.

He hesitated, taking in the question, unsure how much he should reveal to this stranger. Only what everyone knows. When the Valkyris came, she brought darkness to the land. It is an old story. Even children know this.

DarkFall happened almost seventeen years ago, and every year we remember those lives lost. She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a near whisper. There is treachery on the wind. The Valkyris is on the move. She is amassing an army to invade Itheria.

And why does this concern me? I am not Jahnae. Timorn grew weary of this conversation. Other than being seventeen, what did DarkFall have to do with him? If the she-elf was not going to reveal her interest in him, he would move on. He currently did not have a job in Fallow, but he was looking for one. The guards at the town’s gate had recommended the Singing Harp pub as a place he might be able to find an opportunity. His skill as a