Bearhollow: Vaintra's Fate, #2

By Frederick Lacroix

When a desperate Halia decides her only remaining solution is to break into the infamous Gurlak Manor, she sets into motion a destiny she didn't know she had, and discovers a family she never dreamed of having.

 

How will Halia react to to getting caught cat burglaring? And how will others react to her being there?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Monolithic Press
• Release date: Feb 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9781989056233

Book preview

BEARHOLLOW

By Frederick Lacroix

Published by

Monolithic Press

MonolithicPress.com

Legal deposit / Dépôt légal: 2022

Library and Archives Canada

Bibliothèque et Archives nationales du Québec

ISBN: 978-1-989056-23-3

Cover and interior design copyright © 2022 Monolithic Press

Cover art copyright @ funwayillustration/Depositphotos

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

Copyright © 2022 Frederick Lacroix

All rights reserved.

Table of Contents

Title

Credits

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty One

Twenty Two

Twenty Three

Twenty Four

Twenty Five

Twenty Six

Twenty Seven

Twenty Eight

Twenty Nine

Thirty

Thirty One

Thirty Two

Thirty Three

Thirty Four

Thirty Five

Thirty Six

Thirty Seven

Thirty Eight

Thirty Nine

Forty

Forty One

Forty Two

Forty Three

Forty Four

Forty Five

Forty Six

Forty Seven

Forty Eight

Forty Nine

Epilogue

Deities

Calendar

Also by Frederick Lacroix

About the author

CHAPTER ONE

23rd day of Osilih'a's Gaze, Year 198

Halia hung precariously from the ledge of a balcony belonging to a somewhat rich merchant from the distant Kingdom of Renys. A very large house, fenced on all sides by a ten feet tall, solid stone wall, both made of the same light gray and off-white blocks, and built not too far from the cliff from which the city took its name. It was an easy target for desperate thieves like Halia. With its garden surrounding the property, a garden composed mostly of short, stocky bushes of dark green leaves and needles, and stout trees planted at even intervals, the Gurlak Manor had been a staple of Broken Cliff for a hundred years or more, and in those hundred years, dozens of thieves succeeded into breaking in, stealing a few valuables and disappearing into the night. Of course, hundreds perished trying, their dead bodies sometimes paraded, or displayed publicly as a warning to others. A warning generally ignored by the bold and the starving. Halia was both of these.

The deserted streets of Broken Cliff were a blessing to Halia's current predicament, as there was no doubt someone would have called the city guard on her dangling silhouette. The night was cold and overcast, with the distinct scent of rain permeating the air. A sharp wind blew through the streets, one of the many reasons why people stayed inside. Even though Broken Cliff was the southern most of the city-states of the Freepeople, it was one of the coldest all year round. Most people kept their curtains closed after dark, and so the city looked dead for anyone not used to the darkness. Inns, taverns and the occasional business establishment were the obvious exceptions to this. Right now, in the street where Halia contemplated her next move, there was not a single lit window. The distant sound of yelling could be heard, resonating through the city as people screamed at each other, sang or fought without care. A vague, distant sound of surf crashing onto the cliffs nearby was a staple to anyone living in Broken Cliff, so much so that the majority of people didn't even notice it, save for about a week a year when the sea battered the hundred foot tall, rocky cliff with its watery fists. The Festival of the Waves was a few weeks away still, and so the sea was calm.

Halia adjusted her grip on the banister, careful not to let go completely in case she couldn't grab it again. There was no light to guide her hand and she cursed herself for picking that night to try her little heist. She'd been confident the clouds would part before she started climbing the walls of the mansion, but they had not and it was too late to turn around. She'd sank the last of her money into buying the black clothes she was wearing and the two long knives hidden under her tunic, and her only hope was to make it inside without being caught and out with something valuable.

She didn't want to end up in a dark alley, enticing men with her charms for a few coins.

Halia pulled herself up, struggling to do so. She felt her muscles tremble, but she slowly dragged her body toward the top of the balcony. Her stomach scraped against the bottom edge, then her knees. She lifted her leg sideways and started looking for a place to put her foot down. Once her toes were secure on the floor of the balcony, she pushed with her leg and planted her other foot solidly on the stone structure. She slid on the other side of the handrail, vaulting over it like a circus performer. She'd scouted the house twice during the day and she knew there was no furniture there, only two large wooden doors. Halia dropped on her stomach and started crawling forward.

The balcony wasn't too wide, so it took her only a few moments to reach the doors. As she'd suspected, there was no handle on this side and the doors were locked. From the inside of her tunic, she drew one of the knives, the long, thin one, and slid it between the two doors, looking for a mechanism to lift. Slowly, methodically, the knife scraped the wood until it encountered an obstacle. Halia pushed harder.

There was a clicking sound and the knife jumped forward. The doors were unlocked.

Halia got back down, this time staying on her knees. She transferred the knife to her other then pushed the door open just enough for her to make her way inside. She closed it back, making sure the locking mechanism didn't re-lock it automatically.

The inside of the house was pitch black. She couldn't even make out any doorway or window anywhere. She started shuffling about, still on her knees, making sure to be careful not to disturb or break anything as she moved around.

After a few minutes, Halia had a good idea of what the room looked like. There was a small, round wooden table in the middle, flanked by two, sturdy chairs with an overstuffed seat. Along the walls, two large bookshelves and one dresser of sort stood there, all empty. There was a long, bare wall at the opposite side of the door leading out, but Halia didn't find any path to exit the room. Frustrated, she did it again. And again.

Finally, an hour later, she noticed the smallest of cracks on the long, empty wall. She let her finger course along the crack, having to get up on her tiptoes to follow it around. A masterfully hidden arched door. She let her hands glide on the soft wall, trying to find some sort of handle, or even just a protrusion, but there was nothing. She took a deep breath and started to proceed methodically along the door itself, then around the door, then expanding her search further and further until she felt like she'd explored the entire wall. Not one to give up, Halia did it again. For three hours, she explored every single corner of the room, blindly patting, caressing and thumbing through all the nooks and crannies between the floorboards and the shelves of the bookshelves. She sat down in front of the door to contemplate the possibility of leaving there without anything to sell.

Still frustrated, Halia nearly punched the door. She sighed. Halia put her hand on the door and used it to get up on her feet. She almost fell back on her butt as the door slid down in the floor.

*****

Light flooded the room, forcing Halia to shield her eyes. She stepped aside quickly, trying to hide and cursing herself for her stupidity. She waited for what felt like minutes, letting her eyes get accustomed to the brightness.

The room she was in was old and dusty. The walls, covered with wallpaper, had turned from white to yellow throughout the years. The thick layer of dust on the dark wooden floor was disturbed where she'd walked and crawled. She could see her hand prints on the white wooden table, the satin red cushions on the chairs, the dark wooden dresser and the equally dark bookshelves. A mirror was fixed to the dresser, tarnished from years of accumulated dust.

She looked at herself. Her black pants, black tunic and black gloves had turned grey on about half her body due to the accumulated dust. Halia grimaced and brushed herself gently, quietly, as best as she could. It was more of a reflex than anything else, as it wouldn't make any difference in that light.

She peeked through the door, trying to see if anyone had noticed her or the open door, but there was no one.

The inside of the house was about as dusty as the room she was standing in. A large, star-shaped chandelier hung in the middle of a long room surrounded on all side by a balcony and a half dozen doors. The bright, white light emitted from the chandelier didn't seem to come from candles, or any sort of flames, but from the crystals set at regular intervals on the upper side of it. The floor was covered by a thick, dark red carpet, its color muffled by the gray dust over it, and the handrails around the balcony were painted white. The walls were covered with the same white wallpaper from her room, but much less yellowed by age. Portraits hung here and there, all sporting old men and women with a severe look on their face. The vaulted ceiling was painted with scenes of hunting and battle mixing with each other in a strange ballet of armored men and frightened boars and deer. On her left, at the other end of the balcony, Halia spotted stairs going down to the first story. There was no sound in the house, except for her heavy heartbeat and the sound of her breathing that were surely loud enough to wake up the dead. Halia noticed she was sweating and how hot the house was compared to the outside. Through the black cloth tied around the lower half of her face, she took a deep breath and then a step forward.

Halia crept up to the edge of the balcony and looked over, trying to find someone to avoid, or something to steal. There was no one downstairs, and it looked quite similar to the level she was on. There were a few dressers, like the one in the room she just left, and some chairs lining the walls, otherwise, it seemed identical.

Come in, young one, a deep voice said. Come down. We will talk.

Halia panicked and turned around, intent on fleeing through where she came from. She took a step and the door leading to the room slammed shut.

Don't be impolite now, young one.

Halia cursed herself again. Now she'd joined the countless others who'd been made examples of. Or worse, the disappeared that were never heard from again.

She walked along the balcony, slowly, then down the stairs. She dragged her feet as much as she could, reluctant to move, and feeling like these were the last minutes of her life. A door opened to her right.

Come, the voice said again.

Halia froze for a moment. She tried to push her body but it wouldn't obey. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. If she was to die, she would meet death on her feet and unafraid.

She walked into the room.

*****

An old man sat behind a long, dark wooden desk, writing. The room itself was dimly lit by a globe hanging from the ceiling. Tables, desks and dressers, all made from the same dark wood, lined the walls around the room and hundreds of things were piled on top of them. From parchments and books to small chests to vials and bottles, it was a veritable bric-a-brac of disparate stuff. The man's desk was somewhat cleaner, with only about half of it filled with books and parchments. The room was warm, with the same thick red carpet on the floor, but this one was brighter, not dulled by years of dust accumulating on it. The walls were of paneled light wood, and the ceiling was painted white. There was only one portrait in the room, hung behind the man on the wall, a couple looking at each other, sitting on a bench and overlooking a cliff near the ocean.

What is your name, young one? the man asked without looking at Halia.

Suza, Halia said.

The man chuckled. What is your real name, young one?

He lifted his head and looked at her. He was old, with a short white beard and well trimmed hair. His blue eyes were unflinching.

Halia.

Halia, the man said, nodding. What clan are you from, young Halia?

Halia hesitated. Her father had been exiled from the clan to marry her mother and he'd been banished from claiming any affiliation to it, a fate passed onto her. She was, technically, of no clan now, something most of the Freepeople dreaded.

No clan, she said.

The man nodded. Tell me.

Halia shrugged. The Bearhollow Clan.

The old man put down his quill and got up. He stretched his back and arms and moved around the desk. He sat on the corner of the desk, crossed his arms and examined Halia for a long moment, before nodding to himself. With a subtle gesture from the man, the globe hanging from the ceiling became brighter. He took a few steps, seemingly unsure of his legs, then walked to Halia.

As I suspected, he said.

CHAPTER TWO

23rd day of Osilih'a's Gaze, Year 198

What do you mean? Halia asked.

The old man smiled and backed off to his desk. He leaned against it and crossed his arms.

The room seemed warmer than it was a moment ago. Brighter too. Halia felt like sitting down, her legs not as steady as they were when she opened the door, but there was nowhere to sit. She sank to the floor, barely noticing the thickness of the red carpet under her legs and hands.

What I mean is, the old man started, that you bear the same blood as Atronep Bearhollow.

The First Speaker of the Freepeople?

The old man nodded. You're both from the same clan, but I didn't think he had any relatives still alive.

How do you know we're related?

He laughed softly, and from the pocket of his jacket he extracted a pipe and a small leather bag. He opened the bag and started filling the pipe with dehydrated leaves.

This is one of the place the Bearhollow Clan used a long time ago to hide some of their less... legal... pursuits. It has strong magical protections against those who are not of the blood. Usually, the intruders get locked in the room they broke in and I have to call the guards to get them out. Sometimes one of them manages to escape with a trinket or two, if he or she is distantly related to our clan, but only the pure blood members, like you it seems, can enter the house proper. And save for Atronep Bearhollow and you, I haven't had a proper visitor in... thirty years, and that was Atronep's father. I believe. Plenty of intruders, though.

Halia's head was spinning. Few people were recognized as the 'pure blood' of their clan anymore. There had been a lot of inter-marriages in the last hundred and seventy-five years. These alliances were used to cement treaties and strengthen different clans, and so not many could trace their lineage directly to the founder of said clan. Was this the reason for her father's disgrace? Did the clan know that he was carrying the blood of Bearhollow, the founder of the Bearhollow Clan? It was rumored that some of the priests and counselors kept meticulous records of such things, but since people were free to travel and have children with whomever they liked, losing track was easy. Halia shook her head. This didn't seem likely.

I think you're wrong, she said. I think your magic just failed.

The old man puffed on his pipe. Possible, of course. But unlikely.

Why?

Because the lights still work. There is an underlying magic that keeps the manor going, so to speak. I found that strange when I arrived here first, but it became apparent that the single-mindedness of it meant that you couldn't disable a specific part of it and infiltrate the house. If one thing fails, everything fails, alerting the occupants of the manor.

It made sense. But only if the manor was populated by more than one person. What happened when the old man was sleeping? Or out to buy food? Halia asked as much.

The old man shrugged. I don't need to go out. And I'm a light sleeper.

Halia nodded but a thought popped into her head. Does... she started. She swallowed. Does that mean we're related?

The old man smiled. Indeed, it would seem so. He frowned. How rude of me. You can call me Lesan.

Halia got up and extended a hand. The old man smiled again and took it. It's a pleasure to meet you, Lesan.

*****

The old man came back in his office with one of the chairs from the hallway and he set it down next to Halia before moving back behind his desk and sitting down. Halia sat on the old, dusty chair, which she tried brushing with her hand before to no avail. At least it was more comfortable than the floor. Lesan closed the book he was writing in and put it aside. From a drawer, he extracted a glass bottle filled with an amber liquid and two glasses. He poured some of the liquid in each glass and leaned over his desk to offer one to Halia. She took it and smelled it.

Whiskey? she asked.

Lesan nodded and winked at her. Normally I only drink it when Atronep comes to visit, but I'll make an exception.

Halia took a little sip. The whiskey burned down her throat as it went down and she coughed. She'd drank whiskey once before, it wasn't something poor people like her drank. She took another sip, which went down smoother. The old man was smiling. He took a sip and puffed away at his pipe.

So, Halia, tell me why you're trying to burglar my house.

Halia took another small sip from her glass and put it down on Lesan's desk. How could she explain her life to someone like him? The struggle her parents went through before dying two years back. The cold nights with nothing to eat and the uncertainty of her father's return. It was unlikely he could understand that. She shrugged.

"There isn't much to say. All I have is what I'm wearing now. No family left and I don't want to end up in a dark alley with passing sailors like most of my old friends have turned out. A few married early, and now they live well enough. One has managed to marry a rich merchant and they moved