Rocalla's Saga: Betrayal

By Marie Véronique Emonds

Hoping for asylum and acceptance, Rocalla discovers the Rhozzhan of the Duradh Plateau to be wary of outsiders and fearful of becoming entangled in her struggles with the authorities in Mandelbroggen. Things grow more tense as events cause them to suspect that she is still being pursued for her actions in that city. As she works to build trust, a Rhozzhani Teller warns her of imminent danger, despite her location beyond the borders of the Pyrusian Empire. Suspecting that her presence will endanger the Rhozzhani village where she is staying, Rocalla is once again forced to flee into the wilderness to escape, this time with the aid of a Rhozzhani guide. This fantasy novel follows Rocalla into a foreign land with a culture that is misunderstood and despised by some of the North Plessian women who are accompanying her. She fights to build trust and understanding, while trying to determine how her location in this land was betrayed to those in Mandelbroggen who still want her returned to that city for persecution as a heretic or enemy of the empire. Betrayal is the second book in the Rocalla’s Saga series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marie Véronique Emonds
• Release date: Oct 16, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005322625

Marie Véronique Emonds

Marie Véronique Emonds is a writer of fantasy and science fiction, now living in Maine. With an interest in science fiction and fantasy that stretches back for decades, she created worlds, languages, and stories in her free time while working as an industrial scientist. Rocalla’s Saga is her first written work to be published, a culmination of years of creative labor and refinement. As she completes the first five-book cycle of Rocalla’s Saga, she is contemplating where to take her creative efforts next. There are outlines and visions for a second Rocalla’s Saga cycle, as well as ideas for a science fiction novel or novels centered on planetary conflict and exploration.

Book preview

Rocalla Rastama, a young Zariinyeida priestess, arrived in Mandelbroggen to begin her first assignment as a Traveler, an observer sent out to study the world. Mandelbroggen is the largest city in the province of North Plessia, where tension between the local church leaders and the occupying forces of the Pyrusian Empire is evident. As part of church law, all practice of magic is forbidden within the province. After becoming friends with a young archer named Dierdra, who is trying to make her own way in a culture where women have few rights, Rocalla becomes curious about an underground group of wizards, the Circle Cultists.

She and Dierdra drop in on one of their secret meetings. But their role in local events truly begins to change when during a tour of ancient ruins beneath the cathedral they discover the skeletal remains of a murdered bishop. The remains are hidden behind a wall at the end of an underground passage, the far end of which ends at a door in the castle foundation. Ignoring the wishes of the current bishop, Rocalla, Dierdra, and Elanor (one of the Circle Cultists) enter the castle through the underground passage and find enchanted glass orbs, orbs whose very presence indicates that high level wizards are working within the castle. Unfortunately, they are discovered during their explorations, and narrowly make their escape back to the cathedral, where the church leaders capture them.

After explaining their discovery to the bishop and leaving him with an orb as evidence, they are left on their own. Because of the delicate balance of power, the bishop wants to proceed cautiously, and does not intend to openly accuse the imperial government of using wizardry or killing the former bishop. When Bishop Rul makes a formal announcement a couple of days later that Bishop Kel’s body has been discovered, and that the former bishop was murdered because of a discovery he had made regarding magic, the people naturally blame the Circle Cultists.

Father Hafhmar Maan bravely steps forward after the bishop has finished speaking and presents the magic orb as evidence, preparing to accuse the imperial government. But before he can finish, he is shot in the chest by a crossbow from the town tower. When he drops the orb, it shatters, releasing its magic, which produces a wide area of magical flame that immolates Father Hafhmar and many bystanders.

Rocalla and Dierdra are already being sought by the imperial government; after the tragedy at the town square, they decide that they must immediately leave the city. Together with a swordsman that they met while working in the citrona fields, four Circle Cultists, and a naturalist, they try to depart Mandelbroggen, only to find their way blocked by Imperial Minister Gorla Nen and a squad of soldiers. When Rocalla refuses to surrender, a battle ensues. Gorla Nen joins the fight, personally besting Rocalla and beating her to her knees. Mariyiybha, a fellow Traveler who has lived quietly in Mandelbroggen for the last 12 years, joins the battle in order to save Rocalla, sacrificing her own life in the process. In the aftermath, Gorla Nen and her soldiers retreat, allowing Rocalla and her companions to leave the city.

They flee into the mountains, pursued by another group of soldiers sent by Gorla Nen. Barely making it through mountain trails fresh with a heavy late autumn snowfall, they fight a final battle to escape capture, aided by the Circle Cultists’ magic and the use of another magic orb. Finally, they arrive within sight of Glestnokh Pass, gateway to the Duradh Plateau and freedom from the Pyrusian Empire.

Map of the Duradh Plateau

1: Glestnokh Pass —

1054 Kyabalaka 13

High up in the Shattered Mountains, I wake before dawn on the thirteenth day of Kyabalaka, thirteenth month of the year 1054, and survey the area of Glestnokh Pass. The terrain is covered with the thick blanket of snow that arrived as we climbed here, during the later days of autumn. Studying the landscape, I see a low tower on the left side of the pass. Constructed of rough hewn stone, it is not a particularly imposing structure, standing a mere three stories above the path. As the sunlight reaches it, it comes clearly into view. A glint of bright light catches my eye, a flash of brilliance reflecting off a polished metal surface.

Then it is gone, and only the tower along the pass remains.

* * *

Hours later, the eight of us are still pushing our way through the waist-high snow of the mountain pass under a clear azure sky. The deep snow, combined with the steady uphill climb, makes walking a chore. I am sweating from exertion despite the cold. My dress is sodden and weighted down by clinging snow, and the chemise that I wear under it is sticking to my skin due to the dampness. Breathing heavily, the cold and thin mountain air stings my lungs as I think about how I am going to manage to get my clothes dry without freezing to death.

As we rise to the top of the pass, the going gets easier. The snow here is only ankle deep, blown clear by the wind coming through the gap in the mountains. We are within easy bowshot of the tower when a voice commands us to halt. Stop there and identify yourselves. The language is Gallish, but the words carry a strong accent.

I am Rocalla Rastama, a Traveler of the Teidhwar Zariinyeida, journeying with seven of my friends, I say.

Where are you going? the voice from the tower asks.

We wish to visit the Duradh Plateau.

What business do you have in Rhozzhani lands? the voice asks.

I hesitate, unsure of what to say. In truth, we are fugitives, running from the imperial soldiers of the Pyrusian province of North Plessia. Fearing what will happen if I tell our inquisitor this truth, I try to think of another reason for our being there.

The man asked you a question. Are you going to answer him? Borojs asks in his grating, high-pitched voice. He stands next to me, wrapped in a thick gray woolen robe with long full sleeves. The bottom of the robe and the gray woolen trousers beneath it are covered with clinging snow.

Do we need a specific reason to enter your lands? I ask of the voice in the tower. Each of our reasons is somewhat different, but we would all like to visit the plateau and explore your culture.

We do not welcome outsiders to our territory, the voice says. It is better that you return to where you came from. The more I hear of his voice, the more familiar it sounds.

Snow swirls around my legs, blown by a chilling breeze. I start to shiver, and pull my arms tightly across my chest. I strive to hold my head up as I speak. We cannot go back. Winter is upon us and the mountain trails can no longer be safely crossed.

Winter is upon us as well. We may not have food enough to supply the needs of eight visitors throughout the lean months ahead.

We have some provisions, and we’re willing to fend for ourselves. We do not intend to become a burden to you.

Despite your intentions, my orders are to allow no foreigners onto the plateau during the lean months.

Then you would prevent us from continuing our journey? I ask.

Go back, the voice says.

I raise my voice, frustrated by this impasse. We cannot go back. The way is blocked.

This is not sufficient. You can find a way.

I am losing my patience. Can we at least come out of the snow and talk face to face?

There is a short wait before we get a reply. Rocalla Rastama, you and two others may enter the tower. Leave your weapons there. The rest must wait where they are.

I turn to face my companions. I am going in to talk. Who will come with me?

How do you know it’s not a trap? asks Borojs, the short balding wizard with the grating voice.

I don’t, I say, but we’re not getting anywhere, and I need to negotiate our way onto the plateau. I’ll take the chance.

Well, I won’t, says Borojs.

I’ll come, says Dierdra, the tall archer whose bright red hair cascades down onto her shoulders. Rays of sunlight catch the many garnets set in her abundantly pierced ears, causing them to sparkle deep red and temporarily outshine the three golden hoops hanging from each ear. Clavius, take these, she says as she hands her finely crafted composite bow, quiver, and long sword to our muscular swordsman.

Elanor, will you accompany us? I ask. She hesitates, looking over at Borojs. Sure, she says, Why not? If they want to harm me, they can shoot me out here in the snow as easily as they can inside. At least I’ll be out of the weather.

Twisting my neck around to face the blank walls of the nearby building, I say over my shoulder, We’re coming. Then Dierdra, Elanor, and I turn and walk toward the tower door. Just before we reach the portal, it opens. Without hesitation, I lead the way in.

It takes my eyes a minute to adjust to the dark interior. Inside a large, sparsely furnished room, we are surrounded by four Rhozzhan wearing brown, loose-fitting, hooded robes that extend to their ankles. The robes look to be made of a fine wool, with delicate geometric patterns woven into the cloth, and they are secured at the waist with matching belts. All four of them stand shorter than I do. At the far side of the room, a low fire is burning in a pit next to the wall, filling the room with acrid smoke. The Rhozzhan are all armed with scimitars held at the ready, but they do not threaten us. Their clear brown eyes watch us from faces framed by tightly curled hair in shades ranging from brown to nearly black. I want to walk over to the fire so that I can warm myself, but they are blocking our way. One of the four appears to be a woman; she wears a couple of brass-colored bracelets on each arm. A moment later, a fifth Rhozzhani man comes down the stairs in front of us.

The border is closed to visitors for the winter, he says. You should return to the city of Mandelbroggen while you still can.

I recognize you, I say. You’re Khasad Uróg, the one that I met in the port area that night three weeks ago.

And I recognize you, and your dark-haired companion as well. The last time we met, you pulled a long knife on me. My guess is that you are still carrying it. Will you give it up willingly, or shall I ask them to search you?

My face twisted in a wry smile, I hold my hands out, palms forward, then raise my right leg and unsheathe the gyaphla knife hidden under my dress alongside my shin. Holding it by the blade, I offer it to Khasad. He motions to the one that I think is a woman, who steps forward and takes it. She looks to be as young as Dierdra.

As you know, my name is Rocalla Rastama. My companions are Dierdra Laak and Elanor Fhar. If the border is closed to visitors, does that mean that it is closed to everyone? I ask.

What do you mean?

Suppose we were traders, could we gain entrance then?

Exchanges of trade normally take place here at the tower, Khasad says. What manner of trade goods do you carry?

None. It was just a question.

I see. You want to know if there are any circumstances that would convince me to allow you to pass.

Yes. I turn to Dierdra and Elanor. Shall we tell him the truth of our situation? I ask them.

Why not? Dierdra says. It’s not like anything else is going to help.

Of course, now that he knows that there is something you haven’t told him, we have no choice anyway, says Elanor, as her long black hair falls in curls to the middle of her back, framing her pale face and brown eyes.

We cannot go back to Mandelbroggen, I say. Despite the fact that we have done no wrong, we face persecution and imprisonment if we return. We seek asylum in your lands on the Duradh Plateau, or at least safe passage through to the west.

That is a request that I had not expected, Khasad says. It is not something that I alone can decide. I will make you an offer. If you submit to my care, I will take you to our settlement at Zhilnok Rock. You can present your case there, and the tribal council can decide whether you are refugees or fugitives. If you agree to the terms, step forward.

I look at Dierdra and Elanor. Dierdra shrugs her shoulders; Elanor merely stands there with her arms crossed in front of her. I take the step forward, and Dierdra walks up and stands by my side. Elanor looks around at the Rhozzhan, then reluctantly walks forward to join us.

Khasad nods. He says something to the guard on his right, who turns and retrieves some equipment from an adjacent room. Hold your arms out in front of you, Khasad says.

Dierdra and I comply immediately. I take care to ensure that my arms extend out and downward a bit, so that my sleeve will not slide back to reveal the dagger hidden in my arm sheath. Given that I am taller than all of the Rhozzhan in the room, it is natural to lower my arms in any case. The guard steps up and places a heavy iron bracelet on each of my wrists, locking it into place with the twist of a key.

What are these? I ask once he is finished with me and moves to Dierdra.

These bracelets bear the seal of the Tribe of the Two Moons, and mark you as being in my care.

Are we slaves, or prisoners? Dierdra asks.

Neither, says Khasad. But not quite free either. When you meet with the council, your fate will be decided then.

When the guard reaches Elanor, she recoils, hugging her chest with her arms.

You must wear the bracelets, Khasad says.

No. Rocalla, please tell him that I cannot wear them. Elanor says.

We present no threat to you, I say to Khasad.

It matters not, the bracelets are required, he says.

Rocalla, no. No, I can’t, Elanor pleads. Tears are welling up in her eyes. You don’t understand, she murmurs.

Elanor, we are going to seek asylum in Rhozzhani lands. You must either submit to the bracelets, and join us, or head back to Mandelbroggen without us. I’m sorry, but these are our only options.

Why, why do I have to wear them? Elanor asks.

It is required, says Khasad.

Rocalla, you better be right about this, Elanor says. Turning to the Rhozzhani guard and extending her arms, she says, Here, put them on if you must.

Very well, Khasad says. "Rocalla, go out and send your companions in, two or three at a time. Miklo, go prepare a zimlókh for travel." The female Rhozzhan bows to Khasad and leaves the room.

I look at Elanor and see the deep sadness in her eyes. Walking over to her on my way out, I reach toward her shoulder, but she jerks away. Dismayed by the rejection of my offer to comfort her, I leave the tower. The bright sunlight reflecting off the snow brings tears to my eyes.

Where are the other two? Borojs asks, while I am still twenty strides away.

Inside, I say, Waiting. I have asked for asylum, and Khasad Uróg has agreed to take us to their winter village.

So they will allow us to enter freely? Clavius asks.

Not exactly. We must submit to Khasad’s care and make our case before a council in the village. They will decide there.

What does ‘submit to their care’ mean? Borojs asks, pushing his way up to the front of the group.

They put these bracelets on us, I say, lifting up my arms to show the others. And I suppose that we will be asked to hand our weapons over.

Elanor agreed to this? Borojs asks, spitting in my face. It’s insanity.

Why? I ask. What else are we going to do?

You’re an idiot, Borojs says. Those bracelets are made of iron. We might as well be bound and gagged. Wearing those bracelets leaves us wizards powerless, unable to cast spells. Magic is incompatible with iron. There is no way that I can agree to this.

Fine, I say. Do what you want. You’re free to make your own choice. But I’m going with the Rhozzhan, and if you want to come with me, you’ll have to submit. Otherwise, you can walk back to Mandelbroggen alone.

That presumes that everyone else will agree to go with you, he says.

I’ve been in enough battles this week already, Xerxes says, stepping forward. He is our naturalist and guide through the mountains. Dressed in quality winter clothes of well-spun wool, his thick, deep brown hair falls down over his shoulders. I wasn’t impressed with the trail on the way up here, before all the snow fell. I’m going with Rocalla, although I can’t say that it’s because of her leadership. I just don’t see much of a choice.

I’m willing to see this adventure through as well, Clavius says.

Why not? Borojs says. His high-pitched voice cracks and sputters as he continues. The bracelets will probably be barely noticeable to you, if they can find any large enough to fit around your massive arms. Borojs is pacing now, packing down a patch of snow as he moves back and forth in front of me. Unable to understand the conversation, the twins Nassandra and Feneksia stand nearby, shaking their heads and speaking to each other in their native Franhkallan.

Send in the next two, without their weapons, Khasad calls from the tower.

It’s time, I say. Clavius, go ahead in with Xerxes. The naturalist has shouldered his pack and is already halfway to the tower. His chestnut brown hair bounces as he moves through the snow.

What about them? Clavius asks, indicating the twins.

I’ll take care of it, I say.

How? You don’t speak any Franhkallan.

I can manage a few words. It will have to do. I look over at Borojs as I say this. He only glowers in my direction, saying nothing.

Clavius takes his two-handed sword off his back and places it in a pile with Dierdra’s weaponry. He then turns and follows Xerxes, who is now entering the tower.

So Borojs, what’s it going to be? I ask. Are you coming with us or not?

I’ll decide that in my own time. I need more information first. Where are we being taken?

To Khasad’s winter village.

Which is where?

How do I know?

Borojs thrusts his finger at me. You’re the leader. You’re the one with all of the other woman’s journals. I need to know where we are going.

Why, what does it matter?

It matters to me.

Khasad said the village is at Zhilnok Rock. I don’t know where that is, and I don’t have time to dig through Mariyiybha’s journals to find out.

Borojs stares at me in silence for a moment. That will suffice. He then turns and starts to walk away from the tower.

Where are you going? I ask.

To get some air. I need to think. I watch as Borojs walks off to the opposite side of the pass, into deep snow.

The rest of you can come in, Khasad says from the tower five minutes later.

I turn to face the twins. I feel bad about not explaining the situation to them, but Dierdra or Elanor can do that once we get inside. Motioning them forward, I say, "Hejrt klom."

The sisters look at each other, and then at me again. But they don’t move. Feneksia points at Borojs and says something that I do not understand.

I just shrug my shoulders, then motion toward the tower again. "Hejrt klom."

They hesitate for a moment, then Nassandra nods her head and the twins start walking to the tower.

Before I turn to join them, I look back at Borojs. He is standing there in the distance, drawing patterns in the air with his arms. When he stops, I notice a faint shimmering in the sky above him. The image, like an ethereal bird, persists only briefly before dissipating or flying off to the west.

Borojs turns and starts walking back through the snow. I do not wait for him, but instead trot the few steps needed to catch up with Nassandra and Feneksia.

2: Across the Duradh Plateau —

1054 Kyabalaka 13

Wearing the heavy metal bracelets marked with the sign of the Tribe of the Two Moons, the eight of us are standing outside the tower again, together with Khasad Uróg and another Rhozzhan. Nassandra and Feneksia submitted to wearing the metal after Dierdra explained our situation to them. Borojs submitted as well, but only after arriving late and arguing for an extended period of time. Now we are outside as a group once again, waiting in the snow. The pass is windy, and despite the bright sunlight, I am covered in goosebumps from the cold.

Miklo approaches our group leading an animal from around the back of the tower. Four-legged, with a long neck and small head topped with two rabbit-like ears, the creature’s mouth is level with the top of the Rhozzhani woman’s head. Covered with long, shaggy hair, it chews mindlessly, revealing its front teeth behind its deeply cleft upper lip.

What is that? Dierdra asks.

"It is a zimlókh," Khasad says.

May I touch it? she asks.

Yes, you may touch it, says Khasad. Dierdra steps forward and places her hand into the animal’s thick fur. It twists its head to look at her, then turns back and continues to chew. I walk over to join Dierdra, and I hesitantly reach out and touch the animal’s side. The long fur is surprisingly soft, and pleasantly warm.

It looks like a humpless hairy camel, Xerxes says. Does it get any bigger than that?

"No, this zimlókh is fully grown," Khasad says.

It’s a little small for a proper camel then, plus it lacks a hump and is definitely too shaggy. It needs a name, Xerxes says.

It is not a camel, whatever that is, and it has a name, Khasad says.

I mean it needs a proper Gallish name, Xerxes says.

What’s wrong with zimlokk? I ask.

"Zimlókh," Khasad says.

I’m trying, I say. There isn’t an ‘okh’ sound in my native Kopa Teidhwardadya, so it’s hard for me to say.

Do you have any more of these dwarf hairy camels? Xerxes asks.

They’re zimlokka, I say, shaking my head at Xerxes’ arrogance.

"Actually, it’s one zimlókh, two zimlíkh, Khasad says. And yes, we have two more zimlíkh here. But one will suffice for our journey. We will leave now, despite the lateness of the day. Gwathün will load your weapons onto the zimlókh. Please step back from it now." Khasad gives the order to Gwathün, a stocky Rhozzhani man who is perhaps just a hand taller than Elanor.

"Madúúsh," says Gwathün as he ties his halberd onto the beast tended by Miklo.

My ire is rising as Xerxes continues to demonstrate his lack of sensitivity toward the Rhozzhani language and culture. I am not comfortable with our current situation, and I do not want to alienate these people that we are dependent upon. However, there is already so much strife within our group that I cannot risk lashing out at any of the others. The four wizards, members of the Cult of the Circle, keep to themselves and remain suspicious of anyone outside of their association. Dierdra, who is my closest friend, and Clavius, our swordsman, came willingly, but Xerxes was not given much information about our situation and feels as though he has been tricked into joining us. Only our status as fugitives of the Pyrusian Empire keeps us together.

Once the animal is loaded, Khasad addresses his fellow Rhozzhan and leads us onto the plateau. Dierdra and I walk together, enduring the harsh winter conditions of the plateau as we walk across a barren plain marked by undulating hills and occasional clumps of desiccated grass.

Khasad sets a brisk pace, which does not allow for conversation. There is only the trail through the wasteland. The tower was lost from view within minutes, and after several hours, the peaks of the Shattered Mountains begin to lose their prominence. Cold wind whips my dress and saps my strength. Clouds of dust blow past me and bits of sand find their way under my clothing, somehow managing to penetrate my stockings and reach my legs underneath my long dress.

I am grateful when Khasad calls a halt to eat. Finding myself to be very hungry, I eagerly dig into our supplies. There is no opportunity to supplement our food stores here; the semiarid landscape reveals little other than brown and reddish hills of clay amongst flat expanses of sand. Even the zimlókh seems only mildly interested in the dry grass that it finds to chew on.

After we eat, we travel another two hours before stopping, as the sun touches the horizon behind us. The Rhozzhan unroll small rugs on a sandy spot of earth and kneel down on them, reciting words in unison as they bow their heads to touch the carpet. Standing and watching silently, I assume that they are engaged in prayer. Elanor sits down, appearing grateful for the rest, while Xerxes fidgets and rolls his eyes. After five minutes or so, the ceremony is complete, and the Rhozzhan arise, roll up their rugs and we are again on our way. We walk another half hour before making camp for the night. By then, the sun has set and pinpricks of light have appeared in the clear sky above. Thankful that the wind has died down, I marvel at Khasad’s ability to find the trail in the darkness.

We make camp in the shelter of a dry wash. Gwathün stands watch above us as Khasad and Miklo break out blankets and prepare for the night. I wish the Rhozzhan would make a fire for warmth, but none of them seem to be making a move to do so. Then again, I’m not sure what they could find to burn out here on the treeless plateau. Dierdra and I huddle together in an effort to keep warm. Exhausted by our trek across the wasteland, I soon fall into a deep sleep despite the cold.

* * *

A headless body lies in the new fallen snow, its shoulder and arm twisted around behind its back. Nearby, a shattered skull leaks its contents onto the ground…

I awaken with a start, and the nightmarish vision is replaced by the cold hard night. Stars shine above, their brightness muted somewhat by the light of the second moon, Cejiina, directly above us.

What is it? murmurs Dierdra, lying next to me.

Nothing, I whisper, just a dream. She turns and huddles deeper into her blankets. The memory of the vision remains. Recalling the battle just days ago, I expect that it will remain with me my whole life. Images of the dead and dying cannot be driven from my thoughts.

I am a Traveler, a Teidhwar Zariinyeida priestess trained to go out and observe the wider world. But somehow that changed when I came to North Plessia and got involved in the mystery of Bishop Narvaan Kel’s death and the discovery of magic orbs within the castle of the Pyrusian rulers. In a land where magic is outlawed, the very presence of enchanted orbs within those walls spoke of conspiracy, falsehood, secrecy, and betrayal.

Discovered while exploring a wizard’s laboratory, Dierdra, Elanor, and I have been fugitives ever since. We had to fight our way out of the city of Mandelbroggen, and after being chased into the Shattered Mountains, we were forced to make a stand high on the ridges. There, for the second time, I witnessed firsthand the destructive power of the magic orbs. Eight soldiers died at my hand when I tossed an explosive orb into the air, causing it to break on the rocks surrounding us.

My ribs and side