Undermarch

By Derek Gordanier

The Arasynian Empire and kingdom of the Aerie Coast share a strained peace on the northern continent of Alasia, each protecting colonial claims to a wealthy frontier. The Empire holds sway on the mainland, but with Aerie's expansionist Pirate King harrying Imperial ships on the open seas, the stalemate appears headed for confrontation. Against this backdrop of looming war, a scribe has absconded with an ancient text pointing to the resting place of an artifact of immense power: a tablet inscribed with the true names of Creation that legend claims can bend nature to man's will. A sect within the order that protects the oral tradition of the Words of Creation seeks the tablet. The quest to attain it will delve to the roots of the world, where power intersects prophecy, with epic consequences for an orphaned boy and his sister. Welcome to Undermarch, where Creation seeks a second chance!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: Oct 19, 2021
• ISBN: 9780228862642

Derek Gordanier

Derek Gordanier was born in Kingston, Ontario and raised in the nearby town of Gananoque. A graduate of Durham College's Print Journalism program, Derek is a former newspaper reporter and editor who worked for daily and weekly publications in Eastern Ontario. He has also worked in the Parliament of Canada. Undermarch is his first novel. He is married and the father of four children He lives in the village of Spencerville, south of the city of Ottawa.

Book preview

Copyright © 2021 by Derek Gordanier

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Tellwell Talent

www.tellwell.ca

ISBN

978-0-2288-6263-5 (Hardcover)

978-0-2288-6262-8 (Paperback)

978-0-2288-6264-2 (eBook)

Dedication

For Carrie and our children: Drake, Veronica, Victoria, and Calvin.

And for Troy, Don, and Lance, my friends who supported me in this, as in all things.

Table of Contents

Introduction

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Epilogue

About The Author

Introduction

(An excerpt translated from the Codex of the Legends, Library of His Imperial Majesty at Zistah)

Man beheld the world in the newness of time and uttered at the wonders therein. These utterances he etched on the Stone.

Thus, the name became the thing, and the thing its name, and man rejoiced when Creation answered his call.

And man held dominion and raised great works upon the face of the world.

Then came an age of discord when man spake the names of Creation, not to fashion wonders, but to destroy his enemy with fire and water, earth, and wind.

And man contended one with the other to win lordship, for the things of Creation respected not who spake, only that their names were spoken.

A tumult went through the world. Mountains crumbled. Oceans heaved. Flames devoured the land, and the winds scattered its ashes. Soon the works of man lay in ruin, and the world resembled not what had been.

Man beheld the chaos and repented his folly. He sought to destroy the Stone, lest his striving consumed the world.

Always the Stone prevailed, for the things of Creation suffer not the destruction of their names, lest they also cease to be.

Despairing, man buried the Stone in a secret and terrible place to set the names of Creation forever beyond his reach.

Time passed, and the generations of men forgot the Stone.

Man called things in the world by new names, but Creation respected them not, nor hearkened to their call.

Yet some walked the world who remembered the names carved on the Stone.

And these guarded the names in tradition and shared the knowledge with their brethren.

They came in time to be called the Magi, or those who spake Words of Power.

And the Magi moved throughout the world, seeking the Stone that was lost, that their power might be made whole. And they were feared and shunned by all.

Chapter One

The tang of salt air, a sudden gust of sea breeze, the bang of a door thrown wide on its hinges—in all that followed, scents, sensations, and sounds such as these reminded Vergal of Sh’ynryan, the man who walked into his life, unannounced and unwelcomed, in the Aerie Coast city of Caliss.

At that time, in that place—the sprawling island kingdom of Aerie’s lone toehold on the mainland—Vergal lived alongside his sister Alonna in a room above the Wayfarer Inn, the largest lodgings house of the city’s burgeoning port district. Alonna worked in service to Carek, a burly man whose severe hawk-like nose betrayed a rapacious temper to match. Carek owned the sprawling inn that stood a stone’s throw above the bustling harbor and—so far as Vergal knew—all those who toiled within it.

On the day Sh’ynryan arrived, Vergal was a boy nearing twelve years of age. A shock of unruly raven hair framed an open, honest face upon which the boy’s every passing emotion fleetingly appeared. Slight of build, though fleet of foot, Vergal’s lean body seemed perpetually coiled against an energy he struggled constantly to contain. Life had taught Vergal hard lessons young, and the trauma of his trials manifested still in a tense and anxious demeanor. Vergal kept a constant internal vigil against the distressing jolts that the sudden clamors, raised voices, and boisterous behaviors so common to his everyday surroundings could provoke in him.

Outside, a bright mid-summer sun only weakly penetrated the inn’s grimy windows. The taproom’s interior was a gloomy place of deep shadows. Vergal sat cross-legged in one such dim pool, his back pressed to the cold fieldstone wall, distant from the flickering light thrown by the blazing hearth. His eyes roamed restlessly over a frayed and faded map spread on the floor in front of him.

Vergal spent many hours of his day in such a manner, poring over musty maps that Carek—in perhaps his sole act of generosity toward the boy—had allowed him to keep rather than discarding in a larger heap of kitchen trash destined to be dumped in the harbor.

The words printed in elegant script on the parchment baffled him. He could not read them because he had never been taught to read, but he delighted in the maps all the same. His fingers traced the outlines of the ocean’s rugged coastlines, and he imagined the roar of the mighty rivers as they wound in serpent-like fashion out of the mountains.

Sometimes Vergal dared pilfer a chunk of coal from the kitchen’s fire pits and used it to draft maps of his own design. These maps he drew on swathes of linen taken from the inn’s stores. Though rough and messy, these maps thrilled him as he sketched by the flickering half-light of the candles in his room, helping him pass the long hours Alonna spent at work downstairs in the tavern.

Vergal imagined himself king and lord over the domains that emerged from under his lumps of coal. He pondered where best to raise great fortresses in defense of the marches of his realm. He thought long on where to build the port cities and mining towns that would funnel the riches of his kingdom into awesome capital cities that straddled broad rivers draining to the sea.

And when he finished one great realm or another, Vergal carefully folded his map and secreted it in a drawer in his room. He then filched new supplies and began the process anew.

Through his study of maps, Vergal learned to understand scales of size, properly equating the pinprick that represented Caliss, for example, with his own smaller existence within that same spot of ink. He easily perceived himself as a minuscule part of a larger, grander world surrounding him.

Political boundaries he also discerned. This river or that forest divided one empire from the next, though the land rolled on, uninterrupted by man’s arbitrary constraints. For instance, Vergal knew he was subject to the pirate king at Far, an island city leagues out into the Western Sea, rather than the Imperial governor in the Arasynian city of Speakwater, which shared the Alasian continent. And all because of a line drawn on a map! The concept fascinated the boy.

Vergal’s heart raced when he envisioned the breadth of the world hinted at in his maps, even as he resigned himself to the likelihood he would never see any portion of it beyond the flotsam-choked bay below the Wayfarer’s grounds.

Poverty, after all, forged as steely a shackle as chains. Vergal and Alonna were bound to the Wayfarer by the food and lodging that his sister’s service purchased for them both. It was an always tenuous and stressful arrangement endangered constantly by the innkeeper’s ill-temper. Carek menaced, bullied, and bellowed, and, when seized by particularly foul humor, he accused Alonna and Vergal of ungratefulness toward him and threatened to turn them out into the rough streets.

All this badly frightened Alonna, who fretted about their futures. Vergal always commiserated with his sister so as not to seem unsympathetic or unappreciative of her work, but in truth, Carek’s bluster concerned him less. Alonna’s brooding, blue-eyed beauty was the talk of the port district and drew many admirers, however unsavory at times, who spent extra coins in the taproom to linger in her presence over their cups.

Vergal, with wry insight beyond his years, understood Alonna’s value to Carek. The boy knew that Carek, despite his dark moods, felt protective toward Alonna—and Vergal by extension—though perhaps in the way a man defends a prized asset.

On that day, the taproom of the Wayfarer presented as the dim, comfortless place it always did—a place where shadows shrouded the low-beamed ceiling and collected in the corners of the stone walls. The hearth that dominated the eastern wall radiated only meager warmth since Carek fueled it sparingly, but it spewed copious smoke that added significantly to the oppressive atmosphere.

The door banged loudly open, aided by a vagrant ocean breeze rising from the bay. The sudden shaft of late afternoon sunlight flooding the room disintegrated the gloom. The brilliant flood from the doorway dazzled Vergal, where he sat against a wall.

The wind rippled his maps, causing them to curl against Vergal’s palm, and ruffled the boy’s black hair. The blended scents of saltwater and decaying things that bespoke the ocean filled his nose. Squinting against the glare, Vergal saw silhouetted in the doorframe the figure of a cowled man, as perfectly black against the sunshine as if cut from a starless night in the Watergate Mountains.

The figure stood motionless. It might have been sculpted from stone, save for a slight swivel of its head. The few patrons seated at the bar raised a ruckus in protest, lifting their hands to shield their eyes against the glare.

The man in the doorway seemed deaf to their howls. The sunlight filling in around the figure revealed a tall, thin man. The black cowl cladding him paled in the filtering light to a vestment of rich red satin, stitched everywhere with silvery, embroidered symbols. A medallion clasped a cloak at his throat, where a trim grey beard disappeared beneath a high collar. A thick and knotted walking stick, previously concealed against the backdrop of his flaring cape, appeared in the man’s right hand.

If the stranger’s apparel attracted the eye, then his face captured it completely. Short-cropped dark hair salted with grey framed a gaunt face composed of sharp planes and angles. His green eyes blazed as they swept the room; his thin lips were unsmiling.

At last, the door closed shut behind him, and shadows reclaimed the room. The grumbling patrons at the bar turned back to their cups. The tall man at the door tucked his walking stick beneath his arm and began pulling off thin gloves. A slight sneer lifted his lip as he scanned the room.

Something in that grimace sent an inexplicable stab of fear through Vergal, who sat hunched in his corner. Licking his dry lips, the boy called weakly, Alonna…

The babble of conversation in the room should have drowned his call, but the stranger heard him immediately. The wan face snapped in Vergal’s direction; the flinty green eyes pinioned him as they took his measure.

Then a thing happened that set Vergal’s heart tripping in his breast: The medallion at the man’s throat erupted with color.

The fierce eyes scrutinizing Vergal widened slowly. The stranger looked down his thin nose at the glowing metal in open-mouthed astonishment. His eyes drifted slowly back to Vergal, his lips forming slow, silent words.

Vergal stared, entranced by the colors shifting over the surface of the disc and washing the man’s pale features in the muted light.

The man tapped the medallion quickly with his forefinger and the display faded. When he lifted his eyes again at Vergal, his gaze was speculative. The cunning in his expression made the stranger appear vaguely hungry.

Alonna! Vergal called again, now with greater urgency. He pushed backward on his rump to wedge deeper into the corner.

Vergal! What? came Alonna’s cross reply as she stepped quickly through the arch dividing the taproom from the kitchen.

Her long powder-blue dress, cross-tied at her breasts, caught in her feet and tripped her, nearly sending flying the tray she held. Alonna steadied herself against the bar and set down the tray. A thick tendril of jet hair tumbled in front of her eyes. She brushed it irritably behind one ear.

Alonna stooped in front of her brother. She hooked her finger under his chin and lifted his gaze to meet her narrowed eyes—rich blue mirrors of his own.

I told you, sit out of the way and keep quiet, Alonna said firmly. Be still, or you can go this minute back to the room. Her voice fell to a husky whisper, If you bother Carek …

A gruff voice interjected, freezing Alonna mid-sentence. Wine, it demanded.

Alonna turned to find a tall, gaunt man in rich attire easing into a chair directly behind her. His long legs stretched beneath the table and crossed at the ankles. The man loomed close enough for Alonna to scent his exotic, spicy cologne.

Wine, the man repeated curtly, the best bottle in your cellar if you please. He unfastened the clasp at his neck and swirled his cloak over the arm of his chair. His walking stick lay in easy reach across the table.

Alonna appraised the newcomer in a single glance. His tone was perfunctory and invited no discussion, the voice of a man accustomed to being served. She took stock of his fine garb and especially the plump leather purse cinched to his belt.

She smiled and straightened, smoothing the lap of her dress, her decorum restored. Your pardon, sir, she said. Of course, wine, straightaway. Allow me to move this boy out of your path …

Leave him, the man said. He spared a disinterested glance at Vergal where he sat on the floor, surrounded by his maps. The expression of amazement that had crossed his face when the medallion strobed to life had given way to a mask of indifference.

Vergal blanched. He lifted his head imploringly to Alonna, too afraid to speak. Alonna bit her lower lip, returning her brother’s worried stare.

The boy will surely be underfoot, she said hurriedly, bending to haul Vergal to his feet. It’s the work of a moment to move him….

I said leave him! The acid in the tone froze Alonna in mid-crouch.

It’s the work of less than a moment to bring a patron his wine, the red-robed man said evenly. He jingled his purse meaningfully. And it could carry a greater reward.

The clinking coins decided Alonna. The weak smile she offered Vergal did not touch her eyes as she moved briskly away. Vergal stared, horrified, at his sister’s retreating shoulders.

Vergal found himself in a predicament. He wanted to gather his maps and dart up the stairs, but the stranger had as much as insisted he remain in place. Alonna’s acquiescence had inferred he should obey. Uncertain what to do, Vergal busied himself, fumbling with his maps. He dared not meet that bleak face nor look at the strange medallion that had sparked when Vergal laid eyes upon it.

He kept low to his maps and pondered his options for what seemed a long time.

Finally, his skin crawling under the man’s silent scrutiny, he braved a glance. However, the man was not watching him. His eyes followed the drama behind the bar where Carek gestured wildly while arguing with Alonna.

Alonna returned sheepishly to the table. I beg your pardon, sir, she said with a curtsey. He will not break the seal on his best wine until … she faltered …until he sees you can pay.

Vergal held his breath, uncertain how the stranger would react.

I told him you were able! Alonna added hurriedly. You are a man of means; I knew straight away. But … oh, sir, surely you see the situation, she ended miserably.

The man smiled, ruefully and without mirth. He unclipped the purse from his belt and fished a coin from its depths. Vergal and Alonna gasped in unison at the flash of gold.

Take this, he said, unperturbed. Bring me wine and food. If I find those and the service to my satisfaction, I will give you a silver noble of your own.

Alonna nodded mutely. Her fingers clenching the coin trembled. The gold piece was more than a working man on the docks earned in weeks. Vergal wondered if his sister had ever held such a sum in her life.

One more thing, the stranger said. He reclined in his chair and jerked a thumb at Vergal. Bring something for the boy to eat; he can join me at my table.

The boy … Alonna said, puzzled. That is kind, sir, but there is no need.

The man’s frown swiftly reappeared.

I offer a boon, and you refuse? the man said, indignant, his voice rising. Presently, I shall grow irritated and retrieve my coin and leave, but not before I inform your temperamental master of the profit his servant has cost his establishment. What do you suppose his response?

Alonna’s jaw clenched, but she said nothing.

In any event, the man continued, this boy could use a meal. I hear his stomach rumbling from here.

It was true. Vergal’s mouth watered at the mere mention of food. His stomach had sent up a mournful growling, as it did nearly every afternoon when the scent of roasting meat rose from the kitchen. However, Vergal had learned long ago not to seek food after the mid-day meal. Alonna could scarcely afford to feed them daily on her wage, and Carek had a penchant for applying a wooden spoon to the posterior of any young boy who issued complaints within earshot of patrons.

As if reading Vergal’s thoughts, the man added, And if your innkeeper has an objection to the boy joining me, he can inform me directly. His mouth stretched in an unpleasant smile, exposing rows of prominent, straight white teeth—another rarity among the Wayfarer’s dock-district clientele.

As you say, sir, Alonna said in a resigned voice. She dipped her knee, casting a meaningful glance at Vergal as she did. Behave, her look implored.

In an instant, Vergal found himself alone in the company of his strange benefactor.

The man’s splayed hands rested on the table, one finger absently drumming the knuckle of the other hand. I don’t dine with strangers, boy, he said, tell me your name.

Vergal, sir. It came out as a croak.

And mine is Sh’ynryan. Very well, we are properly acquainted. You may join me at the table.

Vergal hesitated, but he remembered Alonna’s soundless plea. He began slowly gathering his maps.

A strange hobby for one so young, remarked the man who called himself Sh’ynryan. He jutted his chin to indicate Vergal’s maps. You have the appearance of an unlearned peasant boy, yet you sit in dark corners poring over maps like a Zistinian scholar. Sh’ynryan chortled at his own jest, a harsh barking sound.

Vergal set the rolled maps on a chair and climbed carefully into a seat of his own. Yes, good sir, he agreed meekly.

Sh’ynryan scowled. I told you my name, and I will thank you to use it. I need no honorifics nor am I particularly ‘good.’

Vergal gaped, aghast at the departure from propriety. Sh’ynryan chuckled at the boy’s expression, and this time, Vergal detected genuine mirth buried in the sound.

Very well, Sh’ynryan said, I see we must ease into this.

The wine arrived, delivered by Carek, who grinned widely and nodded ingratiatingly. He presented a full glass with a flourish. It was the cleanest glass Vergal had ever seen used in the taproom. Carek placed the bottle on the table.

Welcome to my inn, sir, Carek said. He went on, Your coin marks you as a distinguished man, a man of means and—begging your pardon—I pray you will forgive the earlier difficulty. Ports the world over deliver customers long on thirst and short on coin, so I thought it prudent …

Sh’ynryan’s disgusted snort stopped Carek short.

Yes, well, you will find all you desire here, Carek continued smoothly. My serving girl is at your disposal, as is this boy.

Sh’ynryan arched an eyebrow. Oh, this boy is yours to dispose of then? he asked.

The toothy—though, in places, toothless—smile pasted to Carek’s face never faltered. Begging your pardon, sir?

You pay this boy a wage that gives you leave to place him at the disposal of others? Sh’ynryan clarified.

He is the brother of my serving girl, and I care for them both, Carek replied. They live here in my inn.

Ah, you care for them. I see. Sh’ynryan lifted his glass and swirled the glass twice delicately, sniffing its contents. His eyebrows lifted. Well, well, he muttered. He sounded surprised.

The line of questioning baffled Carek. He shifted his weight between his legs, eager to leave but unsure if he’d been dismissed. His smile faded.

Sh’ynryan went on, So their accommodation is an act of charity upon your part? The woman provides no service in return for her keep?

No… yes… That is to say, she serves my customers.

Ah! Sh’ynryan exclaimed, lifting a long finger to punctuate his remark as if acknowledging a salient point that had been raised. So, a service is rendered, and a wage fairly earned. The woman, in turn, purchases her keep and that of her brother, thereby returning a portion of her wage to you as profit. Now we arrive at the heart of the matter.

Carek seemed perplexed. Vergal, seated at the axis of the volley, squirmed in his chair.

Since you so obviously fail to grasp it, man, my point is this: The boy, I discern, lives with his sister in accommodation purchased through her labor. She is therefore not indebted to you. By what right, then, do you command her brother’s time?

Carek’s expression grew pained. Sh’ynryan had placed his purse on the table in plain sight of the innkeeper, whose eyes seldom strayed from it.

Bah, I tire of this, Sh’ynryan grunted. He waved his long fingers dismissively in Carek’s face. Bring us food and milk for the lad. Do it now.

Carek needed no further prompting. He scurried away, and Vergal released a pent-up breath. A nagging internal voice suggested Carek would likely hold Vergal responsible for this humiliation if for no other reason than the boy had witnessed it.

Sh’ynryan watched the man’s retreat. There is a lesson for you, boy, he said, easing back in his chair and lacing his fingers across his stomach. The laborer is worthy of his hire. Or her hire, in this case. It is an old saying, but true. Such men build their fortunes upon the ignorance of those who recognize neither their self-worth nor the value of the work of their hands.

The meaning of many of the stranger’s words eluded Vergal, who was a young and uneducated boy, but he intuited their deeper intent and nodded sagely. Sh’ynryan nodded in response.

The food arrived, served by Alonna. Her clear eyes were wide, her smile forced as she set down steaming plates. She stabbed an anxious look at Vergal but offered only a pleasantry before departing.

The two began to eat in silence.

Vergal’s self-consciousness about dining with a stranger did not show. The aromatic food distracted him. He devoured the roasted meat—succulent, lightly-spiced venison—and fell ravenously on the serving of potatoes. He purged his plate of the last boiled carrot. At last, he pushed away from the table. His contented sigh drew a level gaze from Sh’ynryan.

Vergal remembered at the last moment the manners his sister always worked to instill in him. Thank you, sir, he said uncertainly.

Sh’ynryan allowed the formality to pass. He leaned forward in his high-backed chair, studying Vergal intently and playing absently with the stem of his empty glass. The faint heat from the smoky hearth wafted over them, carrying the soothing drone of taproom conversation. Vergal, who was growing drowsy, stared at the ruins of his plate, unsure what to do or say next.

Sh’ynryan broke the silence. Where did you acquire these maps? he asked agreeably.

Vergal’s hand moved protectively to the beaten scroll cases on the chair beside him.

Carek … the innkeeper … he gave them to me, he answered. Alonna brought them up one day after cleaning the cellar, and I saw them in the trash pile.

Sh’ynryan interrupted. You likely saw many interesting things in the trash. What drew you to these?

Vergal considered the question. He had never contemplated his reasons for rescuing the maps. Passing through the kitchen, Vergal had spotted them nearly covered by the heap: Several tightly rolled tubes of parchment fraying at their edges and spattered with filth. The scrolls had seemed wholly out of place, lumped with the rubbish. The delicate ink drawings shone up at him like the finest lace. Vergal had begged Alonna to ask Carek for the maps.

It marked the first time he had made a request of the innkeeper, even if he lacked the courage to do so directly.

Carek, with the briefest of glances at the trash pile, had laughed and said Vergal could have not only the maps but the potato peelings and old soup bones if he fancied them too and had walked away unconcerned.

Vergal retrieved the maps and brushed them clean. He felt as if he was handling a clutch of rubies. He counted the dirty, worn maps among his most prized possessions.

Vergal realized he had left Sh’ynryan’s question unanswered and began to stammer a reply. The man held a hand aloft to stop him.

Easy, boy! Sh’ynryan grinned in his distressing manner. Vergal supposed the smile was intended to convey levity, but it somehow expressed annoyance instead. I want the right answer, not a hasty one.

It was only that they looked so … wrong, lying there with the garbage, Vergal replied after a pause. Words and pictures are for learning, not for the trash heap. He trailed off, shrugging.

Sh’ynryan nodded. I understand, he said, and Vergal sensed he did indeed.

Let me see what you have here then, the man said. He held out his thin hand for a scroll case. Vergal surrendered one wordlessly.

Sh’ynryan pushed away his plate and set aside his wine bottle. After a moment of rustling papers, several maps lay spread across the table.

Vergal felt ashamed of the stains and tears that marred his maps. The strange man with the elegant garb and extravagant jewelry likely was accustomed to only fine things, and Vergal’s garbage-spattered maps hardly qualified as luxury items. Yet the fine-boned hands smoothing the maps did so gently, using as much care as Vergal might have taken. Sh’ynryan’s half-lidded eyes lost their flinty sheen as they roamed the images. An appreciative whistle escaped his lips.

You have a treasure here, Vergal, Sh’ynryan said.

It was the first time the man had addressed Vergal by name, and a shudder rolled down his spine at the sound of it.

A treasure? How so, sir?

Sh’ynryan ignored the question. He stabbed a spindly finger at an expanse of curly-waved ocean, in which cavorted a fanciful, snarling sea monster.

You see here? He passed his hand slowly over the gulf of ocean separating the landmasses. I have traveled a long way over these waters. The distance is only the span of my hand on your map, but a journey of many months. Do you understand?

Vergal nodded, then blurted, But why have you come? before realizing the answer was surely none of his affair.

A predatory gleam rekindled in the depths of Sh’ynryan’s hard green eyes.

I have come searching for something, he replied slowly. I have searched for a long time, and I thought I had a long time yet to look.

You’ve found this thing then? Vergal dared ask.

I think so. His eyes searched Vergal’s face intently. I am not yet certain. Perhaps, though, I am close.

The obvious question bubbled behind Vergal’s lips: What was it Sh’ynryan sought? However, the man had turned his attention back to the scrolls and did not appear disposed to offer the information.

I have made a long journey, he said, his expression distant. My home is a vast realm of deserts and jungles far to the south, where cities of domes and spires cut from the wilderness rise along the banks of mighty rivers. Longing softened the man’s harsh features as he spoke.

You are far from home then, Vergal offered. I have not seen any such lands on my maps.

Sh’ynryan shook his head softly. Indeed, I am, young man. And I have a long journey yet across this abominable northern rock. He pointed again at the map. Here! This is where I travel next.

Vergal followed his finger to a break in the great fin of the Watergate Mountains, where they reached down from the north. A depiction of a brooding fortress bridged the gap between the mountains. Vergal recognized it instantly.

The March, Vergal said.

You know this place? Sh’ynryan asked with interest.

I have never seen it, except on my map. But I have heard men in the inn speak of it many times. The March is the great fortress beyond the Danea River on the border between Aerie and Arasynian Alasia.

Sh’ynryan smiled, looking pleased. Well said. You continue to surprise me. But go on. What else do these men say?

Vergal frowned, considering. They hate it, sir. They say it guards the only overland route East, and the lord there takes tolls and tithes from the merchants and travelers as they pass. From the way they speak, I imagine the fortress walls stretching across the pass like a curtain of stone, as if the mountains broke not at all in that place.

Sh’ynryan laughed aloud at the imagery. He slapped the table merrily. You are a delightful boy, he said. And you have a turn of speech. I dare say you would make a fine bard, painting pictures with words the way you do.

Vergal returned the smile, unable to help himself.

A comfortable silence settled between them as their attention turned again to the maps. The background bustle of the taproom intensified with the early evening crowd. Vergal detected a faint rumble of thunder beneath the clamor. Rain speckled the darkening windows of the inn.

Sh’ynryan nodded at the window. I noticed those thunderclouds on the horizon today when my ship entered port. We are due for a storm, mark me.

A hand fell on his shoulder, and Vergal turned to see Alonna studying them sitting together. She wore the same agitated expression.

I beg your pardon, sir, she said. Her voice was firm and carried a hint of steel, though she smoothed her dress nervously. It is past time the boy prepares for bed, and I really must insist …

Of course! Sh’ynryan said expansively. Pour me another glass of this unaccountably good wine from my bottle, and he is free to go. He turned to Vergal and said, It has been a pleasure speaking with you, Vergal, his eyes boring into the boy’s. We will speak again.

To Vergal, Sh’ynryan’s dismissal seemed to carry the weight of a threat.

Chapter Two

What did he say to you? What did he want? Alonna demanded.

She crisscrossed the cramped quarters of their room like a caged mountain cat. Her thick hair bounced in time with her pacing. The flickering candle on Vergal’s bedstand stretched her shadow into a monstrous thing that capered on the bare stone wall.

Vergal struggled to stay awake. His face and teeth freshly scrubbed, his belly full of an unexpected late meal, and now wrapped in a cocoon of blankets to ward the chill air, Vergal was drifting steadily down toward sleep.

The soothing cadence of the rain drumming his window invited his eyes to close. I told you, Alonna, he said, stifling a yawn. We talked about my maps and such. He wanted to see my maps.

Alonna snorted. To see your maps! Indeed! A grown man dressed in such finery, interested in a boy’s stupid, grubby maps. She snorted again, an ugly, incredulous sound. Not likely!

Vergal shrugged and shifted beneath his blankets. He drew his knees nearly to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. If a warmer, more comfortable spot in the world existed at that moment, Vergal struggled to imagine it. If only Alonna would keep quiet!

He took rooms here; did you know that? Alonna snapped. The big suite of rooms; the ones Carek uses. The rooms we all …

Her voice trailed off. She shook her mane of dark hair angrily.

He will be here tomorrow, and the next day, and the days after, and perhaps next month if that big purse of his accounts for anything, she spat. And he gave me this. She opened her clenched fist to reveal a piece of silver. What does he hope this to buy? she sneered.

What do you mean? This time, Vergal could not smother a yawn.

There are men in this world, Vergal, Alonna whispered ominously. Evil men …

She paused, scowling at Vergal from across the darkened room. Then suddenly sobbing, she rushed to his bedside and dropped to her knees, clenching his blanketed shoulder in her hands.

Oh, but I’ll not burden you with this, little brother, she said tearfully. She scrubbed the heels of her hands across her damp eyes, then laid a cool hand across Vergal’s brow and brushed back his tangled hair. The gentle sensation nudged Vergal closer to sleep.

I’ll not let him harm you, Vergal. I promise. Alonna wept openly now.

Vergal’s eyes were closed, but he frowned, confused. I’m not hurt, Alonna … I’m not …

He drifted between sleep and wakefulness. The candle’s flame lightened the darkness behind his eyelids.

The soothing hand on his brow lifted.

Vergal heard his sister moving about the room. She snuffed his bedside candle. Then her silky hands returned to smooth his hair and lightly caress his cheeks.

As Vergal descended into sleep, he distantly heard her solemn promise: I’ll not fail you, little brother. Not as they failed us.

The door opened, and the blackness beyond his clamped eyelids lightened briefly. The distant bustle of the far away taproom swept into the room then disappeared when Alonna closed the door behind her.

Her key turned in the lock; darkness descended.

Alonna’s footsteps faded in the hall.

Then only the sounds of tapping rain and far-off rolling thunder.

Then, nothing at all.

He had been dreaming of his parents again.

Running across a storm-torn landscape, he chased their departing souls from the bloodied bed where their bodies lay, butchered. A sluggish, ankle-deep mist swirled around his feet. A foreboding cavern loomed ahead. Behind him, Alonna wailed over their parents’ corpses, screaming for Vergal to return.

You cannot follow! Alonna cried.

Vergal pressed on. They were there, just ahead: two flitting figures sweeping through the gloom. His legs pumped furiously in pursuit, exploding plumes of mist with every brisk footfall.

The cavern twisted, dipped, then rose again as Vergal gave desperate chase. His parents stayed just ahead of him, the toes of their bare and bloodied feet drifting above the eddying mist. They glided smoothly as if carried on a current above the uneven rock floor. Ahead, they turned a corner … and disappeared.

Vergal moved his legs faster than he thought possible. Since he could walk, Vergal could run. His wiry frame moved at startling speed when he forced it. However, this surge of momentum was something entirely new. His heart hammered in his chest; his breath blew out in bursts. The mist erupted beneath his churning feet. Yet still they outdistanced him. He screamed for them as he pursued them around a sharp corner … only to find the cavern floor gone, opened now to a fiery pit.

Vergal barely stopped in time. His arms windmilled for balance at the lip of a massive precipice.

Flames and smoke belched upward on columns of blasting heat. Far below, the nearly insubstantial shades of his parents plummeted into the vast expanse.

They turned, falling, stretching their arms to him.

Their open mouths howled pleas lost beneath the roar of the rising flames. He watched in horror as the curling flames swallowed them from view.

Then Alonna was there, younger, pale, weeping. She cradled a babe in her arms.

You could never catch them, she sobbed. She held forth the bawling child in her arms. Vergal recognized the babe’s black hair as his own. You are just a baby! she screamed.

Defeated, Vergal sunk to his knees. The clammy mist swallowed him to his chest.

We’ll speak of this again! Alonna cried. Her voice faded down some unimaginably long corridor.

I told you, we would speak again!

Thunder crashed. A flash of lightning washed the chamber in stark white light. Vergal emerged, confused and gasping, from the depths of tortured sleep. It took a blurry instant to comprehend the cold, thin hand clamped across his mouth. Sh’ynryan’s grim face loomed menacingly above it. The medallion at his throat swirled riotous color. The eerie light melded with lightning streaks outside his open window to scintillate in the silvery strands of his beard.

Sh’ynryan smiled coldly.

I told you we would speak again.

Times of leisure were few for Alonna in Carek’s employ, but on some summer days, between preparations for the mid-day and evening meals, Alonna found reason to slowly tend to work on the Wayfarer’s grounds. Vergal always accompanied his sister on these errands. Drawing water from the well or collecting firewood from the pile behind the inn allowed them to linger over the task and gain a few free, precious moments to talk and reminisce and to savor the warm sunshine on their skin together.

On one such occasion, as they chatted pleasantly and picked from the woodpile, Vergal lifted a log to reveal a large snake.

The sight of the serpent froze him in place. The primal revulsion of such a hazardous encounter overwhelmed him. The serpent rose slowly off its coils, hissing. Every raw instinct in Vergal’s body urged flight, but he could only stare in a torpid state of shock, too terrified to move. The snake’s jaw unhinged to reveal wickedly curving fangs, and its dead eyes locked his from above its gaping maw, its tongue flailing inside.

Alonna yelped. A quick thrust of the log in her hand shoved the serpent, hissing, back into the pile and abruptly ended the drama.

The same helpless horror he felt at that long-ago encounter revisited Vergal with utter clarity now.

Sh’ynryan’s cold eyes transfixed him from above the icy hand laced across his mouth. Vergal felt the same loathing and menace as when the snake had slithered suddenly near his hand. Sh’ynryan’s voice, when at length he spoke, sounded sibilant as the serpent’s hiss.

You are the one, Sh’ynryan whispered, awed.

The medallion’s light strobed slowly in his unblinking eyes.

Now there can be no doubt, he said, speaking as if to himself. I was a fool to have missed it before.

Thunder smashed outside. Lightning painted the room in dazzling light. Sheer sheets of rain washed the windows. The cacophony seemed to affect Sh’ynryan, drawing him from his quiet contemplation. His voice hardened. His eyes narrowed.

Get up, boy, he snarled. He drew back and seized Vergal’s arms with fingers that dug deep as talons. You are coming with me.

The threat released Vergal from his shock. He screamed. He thrashed his body. His hands clutched Sh’ynryan’s wrist, twisting and pulling to release his grasp, but the man’s fingers remained locked to his biceps, hurting them. In his writhing, Vergal’s forehead knocked Sh’ynryan solidly in his mouth, drawing a sharp curse of pain, but the man’s grip stayed fastened. Vergal flailed his head in desperate negation, wild with fright. He drew a deep breath and screamed again, Alonna! Alonna! Help me!

One hand released Vergal’s arm, but the relief from Sh’ynryan’s cruel fingers proved short-lived when the same hand slapped painfully again over his mouth. The hard hand pressed the boy’s head back into his pillow. Vergal felt the heat radiating from the man’s bony palm as Sh’ynryan applied mounting pressure, locking the boy’s screams behind his clamped lips, turning them into wet gurgles deep in his throat.

Sh’ynryan’s splayed fingers also partially covered his nose. It grew difficult for Vergal to breathe as his head sunk deeper. He flailed and wriggled his body in a battle to draw breath, but Sh’ynryan remained unmoveable. The man’s thin frame disguised an iron grip.

"Enough