Another Post, Another Year

Well, well, well. 2007. I hope for good things to happen this year, but first let me address the past.

In my last post I said I'd update this piece with new info and such, and, to my fault, I never got around to it. But this will change this year. While I have neglected this blog, I have been busy at work on Book II. I finished the first part slightly after New Years, and, after a little break, am currently planning out the finer points in the next part with hopes of writing again shortly. Even so, I promise to update here little things. You can hold me to that.

Book I is coming along nicely, and Ransom is doing a terrific job on it. Currently he's caught up some more personal matters, so writing has been put on a bit of a hiatus for a little bit.

Welp, the purpose of the post was to inform any of those who may check up on this blog that things are still on track, and that purpose has been fulfilled. With that, I leave you, and good day!

~Paul

Updates, Part Deux!

I'm glad to say that the little blog is a busy place today. I thought I'd post up another short story I've had in the works for a while. This one deals less with lore and story and is more a character experiment, where I present both sides of an impending duel and study the people involved. It's a compare/contrast work, too, and has a few other underlying themes. It does take place in Evanon, which is the largest city in Ieyrisia, and does give a little glimpse into the lives of Ieyrisians.

Don't forget to check out Paul's awesome teaser videos he's been working on, with links in the post below this one.

~Ransom

--------The Hour--------

Alryc—

The moan was louder this time, and the people huddled in the smoky tavern tried their best to stifle a chuckle. For the past two hours the man groaning away had run in and out of the small washroom, each time creating a new excuse for his wan behavior. The latest was an obviously malicious mutton he had eaten the night before.

The door fell open and the people sitting around took care to look back to their drinks, though more than one knowing smile passed between strangers. Down the stairs stumbled a slight but strong-featured man with light grey eyes, one slender hand held to his stomach and the other bracing himself on the guardrail. Alryc glanced around with a wry grin on his face, though none dare to look at him or laugh at him directly. He was, in little more than an hour, set to kill a man.

“Oh my,” said one of the ladies that were constant adornments of the Tavern of the Old Bird. She put on a sad looking face and rushed to his side, putting a loving arm around his waist and helping him to his seat. Her long, colorful skirt pooled around her, and her bodice was just tight enough to be pleasing to most any man—but especially to the one before her. Alryc’s grin grew, and he wrapped an arm around her and took the opportunity to put his hand in a not-so-gracious spot. She giggled as she always did, as did the other girls who always gathered around the wealthy socialite whenever he graced the tavern with is presence. His clothes were always coiled in gold and silks and made him stand out like a pearl in mud, but today—and despite his weak stomach—he tipped the wenches and bought the other’s drinks and smiled in ways that made him shimmer all the more.

Another of the women held his slender sword in her arms, as if caring for a suckling babe, and two more sat beside her. As he approached the trio stood in unison, all looking somber and wearing frowns on their painted faces.

“Curse Kal’s spicy food,” he muttered as an explanation before he flashed them a grin. As if on cue, two of the women let out small sobs while the other two put reassuring hands on his lithe body. The frowns on their faces contrasted with their rosy-painted cheeks, but their eyes longed for him just as much as ever.

“Oh Alryc, you’re a far better swordsman than that sorry priest! You’re sure to win!” one cooed through exaggerated tears.

“Of course!” said another. “I’d love to watch you slay him like the foul-tongued beast he is.” This brought a few sneers of agreement from the other ladies.

“I’m not worried,” he said, shrugging nonchalantly. He took a napkin and wiped at his teeth, as if that was the most important thing facing him at the moment. “In an hour I’ll be out the door, down to the City Courtyard, and back in here with all of you.” His smile was disarming, incredibly charming, and wide.

To demonstrate his prowess he stood on two solid feet and swept up the sword from the maiden’s arms. He unsheathed it and twirled it around over his head once, then flipped it dexterously and caught it by its leather-wrapped hilt. A few tavern patrons offered applause. Alryc bowed and sheathed the thin-bladed sword just as deftly. The ladies smiled absently, as always.

As he sat back down, he couldn’t help but think of the irony of it all. Here he was, spending what could be the last hour of his life—though that was highly unlikely— in a tavern. He would not have thought anything of it except that he was suffering from a quite painful stomach problem, which he immediately wrote off as bad food. But now, as he took a swig of a strong drink and saw the sands in the hour glass by the bar slip away, he began to wonder if this was where he should be.

He was known as a churl, the “no-good-brother-of-a-duke.” Alryc knew it and it usually didn’t bother him a bit. This was the place he usually spent his time when it wasn’t meandering the halls of his brother’s house on the riverfront or playing a game of feathers with men that were of a more questionable nature than he was. The young man could care less. He led a comfortable life and had no real problems.

One of the ladies interrupted his thoughts by handing him a filled cup, and he winked his steel-gray eyes and took it from her. But as he put the cup to his lips he saw the door open and a woman enter, sopping wet from the rain outside and wearing a face that chilled the room instantly. Her dress was expensive, as were her mud-sopped shoes, and her normally tightly-knotted hair lay in forgotten tatters around her head.

Alryc nearly dropped his glass and immediately looked for a place to run. But it was too late. The woman saw him, squinted her crystalline eyes, and began a deliberate but purposeful march towards his table.

Zayneer—

The cloaked and hooded figure stood still in the rain, his face a passive mask of quiet observation. The building before him was quaint—no more than a shack, really, and didn’t stand out in all the other buildings that lay scattered about the Sands, the poorest part of Evanon City. Zayneer had not seen it in a long time, but the smell of the alley, the mushy sound of rain falling on the sands that gave this Quarter its name, and the feeling of the broken cobblestones at his feet immediately made him feel like a child again. The now grown man adjusted his robes, took care to smooth his well-groomed short-cropped hair and tuft of beard on his chin, and walked over to his former home.

He stopped and stared at the door. Zayneer lightly followed the cracked lines in the wood with a gloved finger. It occurred to him that he could course those highways with his eyes closed, he was so familiar with their scars.

The door opened and broke his reverie as an apparition from his past suddenly appeared. An old man peered out, a plain woolen hat over his bald head and a walking cane nearly as gnarled as he was in his hands. Zayneer stopped dead at the stare, suddenly unable to move.

The two locked eyes for many moments, and finally the old man spat and said, “Well, do they teach you nothing in that absurd Temple you belong to? Come in before you get sick.” His voice was as leathery and rough as he looked.

Trying to stifle back a wince he gripped his robes hard enough to turn his knuckles white and walked over the threshold. For some reason the lack of rain made him feel uncomfortable. Here he felt oppression around him, one that emanated from the small old man that stood before him who wore a scowl.

“Been a long time, boy,” he seemed to growl as he made his way back to the wooden chair that set too close to a stone brazier. The fire had long since died. For a moment Zayneer thought to go to it and adjust it for his father, but he steeled himself. For most of his life he had been a veritable slave to this man, and he had taken a large step ten years ago when he had left to enter the Temple. It was still a move that left him with mixed emotions—though he had not realized it until this morning.

“Well, stop staring at me like a drunken Dryxen and tell me what you want!” the old one grumbled.

“I—” but the words would not come. He coughed into his balled fist and shuffled his feet on the dirt floor that was quickly becoming mud under his wet clothes.

“Speak, boy!”

“Yes sir,” he said without thinking. He did let himself grimace this time. His gaze rose to meet the old man before him. “I thought I would come by to see you.”

“Ha!” the old man crowed. “When have you ever cared about seeing me?”

Zayneer took a moment before answering. “I’m going to a duel soon, father, and I wanted to say… just in case…”

If the old man was surprised or concerned, he didn’t show it. Though his gaze did drop to the sword that was strapped at his son’s waist, an odd accessory to the robes he wore. “What’s a priest doing with a sword?”

“I’m not a Priest, father. I’m a Lesser-Priest. And I’m still in training. Besides, it’s not against the Code to go into a duel over a matter of honor.”

“What could this other person have possibly said to you? Insult your pretty dress?”

“That’s not important,” Zayneer said. He looked around and removed a pile of dirty plates that stuck together from what was once a wooden stool and gingerly took a seat. “I have to go soon, and I thought I would come by—“

“Ha! You haven’t seen me in ten years. You really think that seeing me now before you will more than likely get yourself killed will make up for the wicked way you’ve treated me?”

Zayneer stilled himself, searching his mind vainly for the words he’d been longing to say for years. Now that the time presented itself they were conveniently absent. He forged ahead to make himself seem in control, but he felt like he was running blindly. The words came hesitantly and shakily and sounded hollower than he would have liked. “Wicked? No more evil than you’ve treated me all of my life. Slaving away like a servant, beating me when you wanted to, and for what?” Not expecting an answer but not recalling what else of the hundreds of things he wanted to say, he rubbed the front of his robes as he stared his father down. He swallowed hard in spite of himself.

His father glared at him beneath his bushy white eyebrows and adjusted the woolen hat on his head. “You and that Temple seem to be a good match. You never did an honest day’s work, you know. All you did was take and take and take, then you simply left. Not that I needed you, and not that I need you now. Don’t ever think that Olyvar Ken’Laik ever needs anyone!”

Zayneer almost shrank back under his father’s yell, a timbre that dug up old memories and opened old wounds again. It was too much to take at once, and he got to his feet and reached for the door, accidentally knocking a precariously attached shelf from the wall. He ignored it and forged ahead and out the door.

The rain’s steady drumming assaulted his face as he looked up into the grey nothing. His father, still cursing him, he pushed from his mind.

Alryc—

“I should have known,” an icy female voice sneered.

Alryc took a steadying breath and set down his mug of ale, feigning surprise. “Well, Senda, I didn’t realize—“

“Of course you did,” she remarked, crossing her arms over her chest, ruffling expensive fabric that probably had never been wet before and hardly ever disturbed more than necessary. “Did you think I wouldn’t hear? It’s all over town, you and that priest. And to think that I stayed in my garden today, expecting you to walk in at any moment…”

She trailed off as she finally noticed the other women that surrounded Alryc. Her eyes narrowed, barely more than cat-like slits. The tavern maids, though used to such rivalry, were not used to such ferocity. They were also not used to seeing someone so high-born among them. A couple of the women, their faces covered in thick paint, looked away from her impossibly fair complexion in embarrassment. The woman standing seemed ready to pounce despite her beauty.

“Senda, dear, come with me.” Alryc stood, then smiled feebly to the women around him. Seeing what his obvious choice was, they took turns in giving him a pout and sauntered away from his table. They made a slow time of it, and made sure that Alryc would watch them go. Senda noticed, as she seemed to notice everything.

He grabbed his sword from the table and, with a face as red as blood, tried to take her by the arm and lead her away. She resisted, however, preferring to fold her arms and walk haughtily towards the door in front of him instead, forcing him to follow behind her.

They stayed underneath the overhang of the tavern and on a covered porch, the rain forming a wall between them and the rest of the world. Senda wheeled on Alryc, who took an involuntary step back and smiled sheepishly. “What kind of mess did you get yourself into this time? I’ve heard every possible variation of the story: that the Priest started it when he failed to nod to you when you passed, that you started it when you refused to give a few measly crowns to the poor, that…no, I won’t even repeat that one.”

Her gaze was such that Alryc finally had to look away lest his uneasiness show on his face. Ever since they had met each other as children she had managed to muster some kind of power over him. From which toys to play with to which women were fit to occupy Alryc’s time, Senda always seemed to be at the brunt of ever decision the noble had ever made. Just as high born as he was, the woman was as beautiful as she was sharp-tongued.

“What kind of man actually gets into a duel with a Priest, anyway?” she asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Lesser-Priest,” Alryc corrected. He found his confidence again and held her with one of his charming smiles. He held out his hand and pleaded, “Senda, I was going to head to see you before I left…”

“Of course, dear Alryc. Like when you were going to see me before you made off when you were ten to join the circus that had passed through the city.” Alryc chuckled at the memory, but Senda continued. “Like the time you were ‘going’ to…”

The confident smile left Alryc’s face as she ranted at him, but not because of her words. There it was again. He tried to feebly rub his stomach as he felt the bile rising in his throat once more. Alryc swallowed hard. It didn’t help.

So as Senda continued to remind him of his past offences, Alryc turned and leaned over the rail of the tavern and wretched very, very loudly.

Zayneer—

He went about a block before he stopped himself. The small roof was still visible over the row of poor houses down the mud and broken cobbled street. The sword at his side weighed heavily on him now. It had grown heavier all day, he thought.

Zayneer knew how to use it. Even Priests of the Order of Maka’latailion were encouraged to learn how to use some kind of defensive weapons, unlike the pious religions of the east that had strict moral rules for their clergy to follow. In the early days of his training at the Temple, when he was taught swordplay, he would often imagine that the target before him had a certain ragged face and unkempt clothes. It was a good way to channel his anger.

That all died now, after seeing his father again. He had not taken the time to think of it a few moments ago, but his father had changed since he had last laid eyes on him. He’d gotten older—much, much older. In childhood Zayneer remembered his father as a giant. Now…

Slapping his fist into his palm, he turned and began to go back to his father’s house. Maybe it was the rain, or maybe it was the way his head swam, but his steps seemed to be getting him nowhere. The small hut still seemed worlds away, until suddenly he found himself once again facing the same one-roomed abode.

His father, no doubt expecting his son to return, was still staring out the open doorway that Zayneer soon filled. The Lesser-Priest, willing himself to not leave this time, turned and shut the door behind him. His heart still pounded, fuddling his eyesight and making it hard to see things clearly. All the things he wished to say still were unclear to him.

Instead he turned to look around his old home. It was in a poorer state of disrepair now than it was ten years ago. The small cot that used to be his sleeping place was now covered with trash. The small kitchen where his mother used to prepare meals was left abandoned. The place reminded him of storybooks where the hero enters the lair of the monster and faces dangers unparalleled by any other story. Only, now, he knew the cave well, and the monstrous enemy before him was his father. He brushed up against the wall as he tried to look at everything but his father.

“Your mother would be ashamed of you, boy,” the old man spat.

Zayneer froze, his lip beginning to quiver with rage. Finally, after many moments, he found his voice as he gestured to the shack that surrounded them. “Don’t need me, father? No, Olyvar Ken’Laik needs no one, this much is obvious.” His father began to scowl harder. “However it seemed that every time you saw fit to beat me when I was a child when I didn’t do what you said, when you chided me for not cooking the food the way you wanted, or coming home when you wanted me to, or not doing work when I wanted to read instead, or when I wanted to go to the Temple and you forbade me…” Zayneer lifted his robes, probably worth more than anything in the room, “it seems that not doing what you wished helped me turn out well, father, while you are still here, in the same place you’ve lived for thirty years.

“Yes,” he finished, sneering, “it seems that not listening to you was the wisest thing I’ve ever done.”

Alryc—

Senda stopped talking as he bent over the railing and frowned. After he was done, Alryc reached out and cupped his palm, letting the rain water collect to wash out his mouth.

“You’re afraid, aren’t you?” she asked, almost amused.

He spun. “No!” he said, too quickly. “I simply had some of Kal’s spicy mutton earlier,” he coughed once, then needed to lash out at something. “Not that you would know, since you find it so beneath you to venture out of your palace, milady. There is a whole world outside your pearl walls, you know.”

Senda blinked, not expecting this from him. “Alryc, don’t be foolish. I’m not here because of your thoughts about visiting with tavern harlots—though I assure you that surely is a topic worthy of conversation—but about you taking on some kind of foolish duel!”

“What is it your business what I do with my time, eh?” he said, almost too loudly. “I’ve been your friend for a long time, Senda, but I can surely admit that at times it’s quite taxing!” He turned away and walked towards the other end of the porch.

Alryc felt a bit better now, his stomach more settled than it was. He got his hands wet again and ran them through his hair. Chancing a look over his shoulder, Alryc noticed Senda’s scowl. For all the years he had been friends with this woman, this was the most unsettled he had ever seen her. She could be feisty at times, moody almost constantly, and always got her nose where it didn’t belong, but she hardly let her emotions get the best of her.

“What do you want from me?” he asked finally, truly at a loss. When she crossed her arms again, and pursed her lips, he raised his hands in frustration and turned away, gripping his sword hilt. The nausea came back a bit, and Alryc finally had to finally admit that his ailment had nothing to do with food…

Zayneer—

The Lesser-Priest’s eyes were blinded by his anger. For years he had kept his words and feelings inside, and now that he finally had the chance to approach his father, wearing the pristine robes of his position, ready to flaunt his supposed victory to his simpleton of a father, the emotions poured more willingly than he would like them to.

His father’s face showed no emotion at all. Instead he gripped the end of his cane harder and breathed deeply. “Yes, boy, it seems you have done ‘well.’ But for all the rich clothes you wear on your perfumed body, you’re still low enough to talk that way to your father!”

Zayneer had all the courage he needed now, and there was no going back. His carefully planned words came to him as clear as crystal. “The way I treated you? Ha! What kind of father treats his son as you treated me? I’ve thought about that a lot, you know. Every time I felt alone at the Temple, every time I felt like coming back here, every time I thought about returning I wondered why you treated me like you did. And do you know the only answer I could come up with? Because you wanted to make me as miserable as you are, father.”

The man, feeble as he was, stood up and walked towards him. He was a head shorter than his son now, and for the first time in his life Zayneer was not afraid of him. So, as the man raised his cane to strike, the Lesser-Priest easily caught it and simply shoved. The old man fell back, falling on his backside with a weak and surprised grunt. The straw floor did enough to soften the fall and bruised nothing more than his ego.

Zayneer twirled the cane in his hands and tossed it aside. Emotionless, he offered a hand to the man on the ground. “Shall I help you, father?”

Alryc—

“Don’t go,” Senda suddenly said, barely a whisper.

There was something in her voice that he had never heard before. He turned to look at her. She still had her hands on her hips like a scolding mother. But her eyes were soft, pleading, brimming with tears. This woman that he had known all his life hadn’t even shown emotion when her own sister had died suddenly under the wheels of a carriage. Here, now, the carefully threaded mask she wore on her face every day of her life was coming unraveled.

He didn’t know what to say. Senda came closer to him, her eyes still wet. “How often have I given you advice, Alryc? How often have I saved you from hurting yourself?” With that, she pulled back and gave him a full slap on his face. Too shocked to even block it, Alryc shook it off, not even taking the time to be angry. “Doesn’t any of that matter to you?”

The man breathed deeply, twitching the left side of his face, as it stung fiercely. But he was all seriousness, now. “Senda, you are the smartest person I’ve ever known, and I agree that I would have probably died a dozen times if you hadn’t saved me from my own foolishness. But, I don’t see what that has to do with this. There’s no way a Lesser-Priest could possibly hurt me!”

“You don’t know that!” she cried. “You can never see past your own pride, you know.”

“This isn’t about pride, Senda. This is about honor—my family’s honor. This is something I must do. Besides, why would you…”

Even as he asked, he knew. All of their childhood they had been together, until they both grew up and then, as children commonly do, slowly grew apart. But even so they had still seen each other when they could, and despite her constant nagging Alryc always felt better when he was with her. He felt more comfortable with her, sitting in her private garden and speaking of trivial things, than he felt with any tavern maiden when they were at their most intimate.

No, this was a conversation long overdue.

Zayneer—

His father recovered from his shock enough to spit on his son’s outstretched hand. Zayneer pulled it back in disgust, backing away as he sneered at his father. The old man managed to sit up enough to amble back to his chair, grunting as he did so.

“Yes, son, I am a miserable person.” Olyvar rubbed his hip as he kept his eyes, as stormy as always, locked on those of his son as he spoke in an even voice. “I always have been. I was miserable when my parents died of plague. I was miserable when I had to scrounge for scraps of food in the disgusting streets of the Evanon. I was miserable when the Temple cast me out.”

Zayneer held back a skeptical look. He couldn’t believe it—his father had never mentioned anything but contempt for the Temple. “What are you saying?”

“Fool boy,” he grumbled. “Your precious Temple took me in when I was fifteen. I had no family, nowhere to turn to…it seemed a good thing to do. But it didn’t take long for them to see that they couldn’t change the ‘wickedness’ in my heart. So they picked me up and placed me outside the gilded doors and left me worse off then I was when I had arrived. It took a while, but eventually I stopped searching for the merciful help from Maka’latailion they so highly speak of and began to help myself.”

“Is that…is that why you were against me joining them?” Zayneer found himself asking.

“Oh, I had no doubt that they would accept my ‘gentle son,’” he replied with a sneer. “There was a time when I was waiting for you to come home, even as heartbroken as I was. Even as angry. But…here you are, standing before me. Grown up tall. Strong. Full of the Temple’s money and prestige. But tell me honestly, my son: with all of what you have, are you any less miserable than I?”

Alryc—

“You and your honor,” Senda spat. “I, being as noble as you, understand honor’s nature. But there comes a time when other things must be thought of. Things…with more substance.”

She came near him then, tenderness in her eyes again. Her hand, perfumed almost to the point of absurdness, touched his cheek lightly. It was a hesitant touch, one born of years of cowardice and feelings held back tightly behind a curtain of fear.

“As foolish as you are, Alryc, I don’t want you to go. Not because it would be unwise of you to do so, but because I fear for you. I always seem to fear for you.”

“Fear…” Alryc muttered in recognition, and closed his eyes at the touch of her hand. It was so gentle, and it went against everything he thought he knew about Senda. No, that wasn’t so. He had always known how gentle she was. What he hadn’t known was the way he needed her gentle touch in his life.

A bell rang in the distance and broke the moment. Alryc looked out, beyond the wall of water at the world that waited beyond, and swallowed hard.

“It’s time…” he began.

“If you choose to go.”

“I must. As one whose family and reputation is of the same honor as mine, you know I must.”

Senda nodded reluctantly, though the grimace on her face tightened. “Why are we both such fools, Alryc?”

The man grinned, then took her fair hands in his own and kissed them. His heart was light in his chest, the nausea that had overtaken him for the last few hours—that he finally admitted was his own nerves—was gone. “There are things I have wished to tell you for a long time, Senda. Tonight I will come to you in your gardens and I will tell them to you.”

“Alryc…”

He embraced her. She dug her face into his chest, and it was many moments before either of them started to let go. Senda slumped into him and let his arms hold her up.

“Don’t go,” she mumbled into his chest. She pushed herself away from him. “My feelings are rarely wrong, Alryc, and if you go you will not gain anything. Even if you win, what honor could you gain from killing a priest?” Senda raised her chin and wore her confident expression on her porcelain face. “Stay with me, now. Tell me now, and not tonight, and I promise you will gain if you do.”

Alryc sighed and turned to look at the rain-soaked streets. The rain distorted the buildings that lined the streets, turning them into echoes of reality. His destiny lied out there, but here, in his hands, was something that many would find preferable to any destiny that could be set before any man.

Uncertainty tugged on his face as he finally considered what it would mean to not go. Who would care? Then again, who wouldn’t? Nobility was a heavy cloak to bear, and many were crushed under its burden. Alryc had always carried it with a lightness that was born from confidence, but now the weight of it was beginning to show its true colors. It was only more than one could handle when one had something to lose. But there are some things that make risks worth taking.

He turned back to Senda and sighed. Alryc had made his decision…

Zayneer—

The Lesser-Priest stared hard at his father. Even as he began to tighten his grip on the sword at his belt, he could feel the bitterness inside of him melt.

“I won’t ask for your forgiveness, boy, just as I know you won’t ask for mine. Though I shouldn’t even forgive you for leaving me like you did. I treated you the way life had treated me. It was the only way I knew how. That’s what happened. I can’t change it. Neither can you, no matter how much you hate me.”

Many thoughts stabbed at his mind and heart, as surely as a blade would. “Father, I am happy at the Temple. They treat me well and welcome me among them. I have power where I am. But you ask if I am as miserable as you…”

The Lesser-Priest finally looked at his father, leaving the burning hatred he had held onto for so long behind. “There are things I wish to change, as well. And they cannot be changed. ‘To live in the past is to forsake the present… “

“‘And to spit in the eyes of the gods, who look ever onward,’” Olyvar finished. “That sermon I remember.”

The sounds of the giant bell atop the temple chimed the hour. Zayneer’s hand strayed to his weapon on his belt. He had almost forgotten.

“Father,” he said as he walked closer to him, kneeling on the dirt floor. He knew his robe was now covered in filth but he didn’t care. “I must go now. But, when I return—and I promise to all the gods that I shall— I want to return. I cannot change the past…and I don’t have to. I want to walk the streets where I grew up again, and I want to speak to you, as men do.”

The old man looked away, as he was too sternly bred to show any kind of emotions to anyone, even his son. But he nodded. “Aye.”

Zayneer smiled and rose, looking at the man he had spent so many years hating. It seemed so hollow now, and a quiet yet steadfast affection that had been there all along shined through and illuminated his heart. “If I had known about your past I wouldn’t have waited so long.”

The old one waved a gnarled hand. “You had to follow your own path. Even if it was away from me.”

Zayneer nodded. Even if it has led me back to where I started, he thought. Maka’latailion worked in ways that he couldn’t even begin to fathom.

With a final glance around his old home—which didn’t look so wretched now— he stepped out onto the streets again, into the pouring rain.

Updates!

Hmm, it's been quite a while since I've posted anything here, eh? Ransom's been dominating the blog with his awesome stories and excerpts, so I hope that's been good enough for those that check up on our little portion of the web! Anyway, onto business.

While Ransom is still finishing up with Book I, I've already begun work on Book II, and hope to have the first part done before New Years. Even so, I plan to post up more updates, such as little snippets of info and such on our world. Probably no short stories for a while, at least as long as I have the inspiration to work on the second book. Still, never know what's gonna happen.

But, this post serves for more than just an update on my doings. In my free time I've managed to create two videos, with more planned for the future. Enjoy!

Book I Teaser

Book I Character Video - Lothenas

~Paul

Short Story-- The Fall of the Veil

This is a short story involving an important part in our world and our story-- the destruction of the "Veil." The Veil is the barrier between two worlds, Ieyrisia and Xyrs'Nazahlia. Think of the Veil as a sponge, where water can move freely through it. But instead of water, Pentura moves through both worlds by means of the Veil. They are more like Pentura and our world (both of them) coexist in the nature of balance. When one half of the world fails, the Pentura must go somewhere, and so it leaks into Ieyrisia alone.

There are "rifts" in the Veil, too, which act as the holes of the sponge so that Energy can move through it. People can go back and forth, too, so the Nazahle and Ieyrisians have basically lived together for millennia. Problems will arise with the fall of the Veil, though, as both have to coexist completely, with the Nazhale as refugees. This is part of the story behind the first book of our series.

The characters in this story don't appear in Book 1, though one does make a cameo in Book 2 (I'm not telling, though!). I hope this story gives some more insight into the nature of the world Paul and I have created.

~Ransom

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Provem rested his head on his folded arms as he stared out the window. The sill was faded and the paint was peeling, but it had the same musty smell as all the books in the school of Mysticism, and that made it feel comfortable to him. His chin and lower lip beginning to ache, but he didn’t feel inclined to move them. The constant fall of the rain outside the window, coupled with the intense black of the dark night, let him get lost in his thoughts.

“You’re going to get struck by lightening,” Laylee, a girl of around seventeen, chided.

“It’s only rain,” Provem muttered.

“Not my fault if something happens to you,” she sighed, and stuck her nose back into the book she was reading. Provem half turned and looked at her. She was pretty, and only two years older than him, but her grace made her seem older. He thought her the prettiest girl in Xyrs’Nazahlia sometimes—and other times he couldn’t stand her.

“Why haven’t you gone home for the holiday?” he asked, finally turning away from the window. He scratched his nose and regarded her curiously.

She didn’t look up at him. The fire at the edge of the common room study danced off the walls, and the small candle Laylee had placed next to her growing stack of books on the table barely illumined her delicate features. “Rychala is the holiday of Forgiveness, and I am a student of nature and Pentura—I don’t have the time for such childish and ignorant notions as a superstitious holiday.”

Provem began to tap his foot, as he did when he grew nervous. He took a deep breath. “Why does almost all of what you say seem to come from text books?”

She looked at him, then, out of one eye accompanied by a raised eyebrow. “I don’t get your meaning.”

“Just about everything you say seems to come from one of our books, or when you don’t want to talk you quote some theorem. Why don’t you say what you feel sometimes?” Even as Provem spoke he could tell he was overstepping his bounds, and her cheeks were taking on that reddish color they did when she got angry.

“Provem, let me explain something to you.” She put a finger in her book to mark her place and folded it before her. Laylee’s almond-shaped eyes regarded him coolly. “I stayed behind because I wanted to get a head start on next week’s lessons. I aim to know every inflection of every technique mentioned in this book by the time the other students get back, and I don’t like being interrupted.”

Provem held her gaze. When it became evident that the boy wasn’t going to back down, Laylee sighed again and reopened her book. “I don’t have forgiveness to ask of anyone, nor do I expect anyone to ask it of me. Are you satisfied now?”

“I don’t leave because I don’t have anywhere to go.” Provem shrugged and let his shaggy brown hair fall in front of his eyes. Then he chimed in, “This school is my family.”

Laylee snorted into her book. “Yes, well, that’s to be expected when one is homeless.”

“This place is my home. I don’t need another one.” The boy found a spot on the back of his head that tingled and he began to scratch at it furiously. “Why do you think no one needs to ask forgiveness of you?”

Laylee took a deep breath that did little to calm her. “Provem! Either stop talking or… or leave! I’m sure Jerlenne would just love to talk to you.”

The boy knew when a cause was lost, but he was feeling tired of being mocked. His boldness was overpowering to him this night. “I bet you never let anyone get close to you. I bet you’ve never loved anyone your whole life.” He meant it to sound like a simple, matter-of-fact statement, but it sounded more like childish taunt. His cheeks burned, but thankfully she didn’t spare him a look up from her book.

Ignoring the simmering look that Laylee gave to her book, he made his way out of the study. As he passed her, he looked over her shoulder. Just as he had expected, she was on the same page as she had been when he had entered, an hour earlier.

He felt foolish. Provem never understood her. She was smart—almost as smart as some of the teachers themselves—but she was always bothered by something. It got under his skin that she was so hostile with others. She could take the chiding she gave him, but it bothered him when it was directed at the other students.

Jerlenne was a constant target of her ire. At seven, she was one of the youngest students in the school, but already she showed great potential. She was an odd one, though—she never spoke, except when Guiding. She was small for her age and had a delicate quality. Laylee always called her a Fae behind her back.

As she always did at this time of night, the girl was playing with an old, ragged doll that she had held on to since she arrived at the school. Provem remembers seeing a young couple drop her off, after they had done tests to prove that she had some talent as a Mystic, and the couple had never been seen again. It was sad to him, and the girl also had nowhere else to go this night.

He sat down next to her and watched her play with her doll for a moment. She seemed to be making it dance. Provem began to hum a tune, and he thought he saw Jerlenne smile, but the girl didn’t look him in the eye.

The hallway was like all the old passageways of the tower. The school was the tallest structure in the town of Sylgan, but the gleaming façade on the exterior was nothing like the grim, stone-worked interior. Even so, Provem still thought of it as a palace. There was a candle on a sconce, but it was the only light since the storm covered up the moons in the night sky.

Footsteps came down the hall, and soon the hunched form of Master Laradin and the tall, athletic profile of Turan appeared. The old man was muttering to the eldest student of the school, and the boy tried furiously to mark down every word in a writing tablet that he held in the crook of his left arm. “And don’t forget to catalogue everything you see tonight. I’ve been telling them that something has not been right and they just don’t listen to me. Fools, fools...”

Turan nodded. They reached the end of the hall, where a set of narrow steps led up to his private study. The Master twirled and regarded him with eyes almost covered by thick, gray eyebrows. “I don’t want to be interrupted by anyone tonight. Do you understand me?” Turan nodded again. Master Laradin turned and walked slowly up the steps, his hand feebly gripping the stone guard rail. Turan watched him go, then turned and saw the others.

“Are you two the only ones here?” he asked, rubbing his face with his hands while trying to keep back an exhasperated sigh.

“Laylee’s in the study,” Provem said. “She’s in one of her moods.”

“Yes, well, she should be. The girl is trying to take the tests of passage a year early.” A look crossed his face that Provem found particularly indecent. “I wonder if she needs help,” he muttered. “As for you two, you can find your own food in the kitchen?” Provem nodded. “Good. I’m being held responsible by all the Masters for the students that stay behind, so don’t give me any reason to look like a fool.”

Jerlenne was still playing with her doll. The wooden legs made a “tap-tap” sound as she danced them across the stone floor. Other than that, the sudden silence became uncomfortable. “Well, carry on,” he said, and went towards the direction of the common study.

Provem watched him go. “He should leave her alone,” he growled. Jerlenne gave him a meaningful look. “He could have a fancy with any girl in the school…” Provem left his thoughts alone. He often found that his innermost secrets found their way out of his heart and were laid bare before the relatively mute girl. He always thought that it was because he knew she wasn’t going to tell anyone, but there was something about her that put him at ease. He wondered if she was part Fae, and not for the first time. Provem wouldn’t ever say that to her, though.

“If I could forgive anyone, I think it would be the other boys that teased me while I was living on the streets,” he began. Jerlenne stopped her doll’s whimsical dance and put the toy in her lap as he spoke, though his eyes took on a faraway look. “They were mean to me, since I was smaller, since I was always the last one to come back with food or with something I’d snitched off of someone. But it was a place to stay, and they were a company of a sort. Yes, I would forgive them if I wanted to. If I could find them. They could be all dead. Or maybe they ran off to join thief bands. Maybe some of them found something to do, like I did. I always count the day that Master Uran found me Guiding on the muddy streets of the city as the best of my life. I wonder what’s ahead of me, though.”

There was a sudden flash of lightning, followed by a thunderous boom only a second later. Jerlenne jumped, and Provem put a gentle hand on her shoulder, then laughed. “I guess Laylee was right when she said I might get struck by lightening. I wouldn’t worry though, Jerlenne.”

The girl was shaking her head, a vacant expression on her face. Provem put his hand over her own, and was shocked to see that she was burning and clammy. “Are you alright?” he urged, but she didn’t answer, only kept shaking her head. “Jerlene?” She took her hand from him and cupped her ears as another crash came from the night sky.

Provem stood and thought of what to do. He understood Pentura well enough, but people always baffled him. He mad his decision and scooped up the girl into his arms and went towards the study. Sounds of quiet laughter wafted in from the warmly lit room, but he had more important things to worry about than petty jealousy.

“Turan, something’s wrong with her.” Turan came over from where he had been standing above Laylee. The girl’s pretty smile left her face when the two came into the room.

“What is it?” he asked, scrunching up his face at the increasingly sick looking girl.

“I was hoping you could tell me!”

“What do I know of odd little girls!” he exclaimed, then reluctantly took Jerlenne from him. He tried vainly to make eye contact but she continued to shake her head. He tried to take her hands away from her ears but she struggled against him, finally squirming away until Turan had to put her down. “She’s gone mad.”

“I think the storm is scaring her,” Provem guessed.

“Silly girl,” Laylee scoffed. One slender finger began playing with a page of her book, but she did toss the little girl a worried glance. Jerlenne walked to the corner close to the fireplace and hunkered down. She was trembling all over, now.

Provem began tapping his foot. “Master Laradin —”

“Is not to be disturbed,” Turan said sternly. “Besides, I doubt he could do anything to help her.”

“We should take her to a healer then. Maybe they can give her something to calm her, at least.”

Turan threw his hands up in the air. “She’s fine, Provem! She’s just scared, and a little…odd, to begin with. Any girl who refuses to talk and spends as much time by herself can be allowed little episodes like this.” Provem looked at both Turan and Laylee, who were staring at the girl. Turan walked over to poke a log on the fireplace and gestured idly behind him, towards the window. “Besides, I’m not about to walk out in that.”

Laylee turned from the scene and peered at the storm outside the window. Then she screamed.

The others turned in alarm—a Guiding was already on Provem’s lips and his fingertips, though he wasn’t sure what he thought he could possibly do. It took a moment to figure what had made Laylee scream, when he finally noticed the odd light that began to peak through the rain-streaked night. Slowly, he began to edge towards the window. Turan backed away, giving the boy an odd look. But Provem’s curiosity always got the better of him.

The rain still blanketed everything outside, but there was indeed a pale light coming from the east. It was bright enough that he thought he could make out the shapes of some of the other buildings in Sylgan. It was not moonlight—was definitely not sunlight—and had a hue that he had never seen.

“What is that?” Laylee asked through trembling lips.

“It could just be…” Turan began, but his half-hearted suggested was left unfinished.

“I’ve heard about things like this. It’s the lights of the stormy sky. Lightening going from cloud to cloud in the sky instead of hitting the ground,” Provem gathered.

“That would still flash,” Laylee said hesitantly. “Besides, that’s not the color of lighting. Or of any light I’ve seen before.”

Even as they looked, petrified by the odd sight before them, it began to grow stronger. Rooftops and profiles of other buildings slowly began to materialize on the street below, and the raindrops seemed to each glow individually, like enchanted crystals falling from up above.

Provem “What—”

“Master Laradin,” Turan said, matter-of-factly, and turned to head towards his study. Laylee sat transfixed another moment, then began to sit up. She knocked a book to the floor and gave a jump and a squeak when it hit the floor, then ran out of the room after Turan.

Provem looked down at Jerlenne, barely visible in the corner. She was rocking back and forth now. A thunderous boom sounded again and the boy jumped away from the window. It seemed to just be thunder again. Coming to his senses, he bent down to hold Jerlenne. He wrapped his arms around her and picked her up to head after the others, but was halted by a small hand on the side of his face. He looked down to see the girl regarding him with her intense green eyes, all trace of fear inexplicably gone.

“It’s all going to fall,” she whispered.

Provem nearly dropped her. After trying to think of something profound to say to the suddenly talking girl, he finally managed a “What?”

But she only shook her head, and her eyes glazed over with fear once again as another thunderclap rumbled through the stone tower. A glance behind told him that the light was getting darker still, and standing here mulling over what she had just said wasn’t going to give him any answers. He took off down the hall at as near to a run as he could muster with her in his arms.

They came across an argument between Turan, Laylee, and Master Laradin at the threshold of his private study. “You’ll bother me with this no longer,” he growled. “There’s nothing that can be done about it now.”

Laylee almost lost her calm as she stared at him in disbelief. “But Master, what is it?”

Master Laradin scoffed and put a gnarled hand on the wooden knob of his door. “Enough of this foolishness. Do what you can now. Think of yourselves.” With that, he shut the door with a slam.

The end of the hall was completely dark now—none had thought to bring candles. Provem held tightly onto Jerlenne as the two other students began pounding on his door. Turan kicked hard enough to probably break his foot, then the others could hear Turan begin to Guide.

“No!” Laylee cautioned, trying to find his hand in the dark. “He’s mad—he’ll probably destroy you!”

Turan stopped and gave a wordless scream. “Why is everyone around me insane?”

The others stood in silence now, except for panicked and labored breathing. Another peal of thunder swept across the town. Eventually their eyes adjusted to the darkness and they could make each other out.

“What do we do?” Laylee asked, almost too quietly to be heard.

“We don’t know what’s going to happen yet,” Proven said, trying to sound brave.

“That’s right,” Turan agreed. “This could be anything. Maybe a normal geographical anomaly that happens every few millennia, or maybe it’s a group of Mystics trying a new…trick?” But his words sounded hollow, and the others refrained from giving his barely discernable form a cross look.

Provem’s arms began to ache, and he bent down and let Jerlenne go. She crawled away from him and wrapped her arms around herself, finding comfort in a cubby in the stonework. The boy wondered how much she could actually do—and why she had chosen to speak to him before. He thought of trying to coax her to say something again but thought better of it. She may not and, since she had spoken to him alone, may not want Turan and Laylee to know.

The other two began to argue. Turan tried to sound reasonable and calm, and Laylee was pulling all manner of quotes from every book she’d ever read about phenomenon related to light Pentura or other manners of luminescence. Soon the two began to get into a philosophical and theoretical debate over the validity of this book or that book.

At least it’s something that seems normal, Provem thought to himself. He could follow along with the conversation they were having, but they were quoting books and theories he had not yet read upon and he didn’t care to ponder them now. There were more important things at stake tonight.

He could make them out clearer now. Laylee had her hand one hand on her hip and another on her forehead as she argued semantics. Though he couldn’t make it out, he knew her cheeks were red. Again his thoughts drifted to his inexplicable feelings for her. He glanced at Jerlenne, wondering if she would eventually whisper something to Laylee about it, when he began to wonder how it was that he could see things more clearly all of a sudden.

“Look,” he warned, and stood up from where he sat. Jerlenne crawled away, too, and stood behind Provem’s legs. The older students stopped their bickering and looked down at their illumined feet in alarm, and backed away from Master Praven’s door. The odd light was seeping through the crack at the base of the door, casting long shadows in the small hallway. Provem thought, with clarity brought on by near panic, that it seemed green now.

The next peal of thunder that followed was louder than all the ones before it. The stones of the keep grumbled in protest, like an old man annoyed at the impertinence of children. But the rumbling didn’t stop when it should have—it seemed to spread throughout the whole of the tower like a wave. The stones beneath them began to quaver, and as one they all began to run.

The halls were small and tight, but the four of them were spurred on by fear. They came to the center spiral staircase—it was a giant part of the tower that connected all of the different parts of the school together. And, now, it was the only way out. The four students nearly fell over each other on their way down the narrow stone steps. Jerlene tripped and nearly went down, but Turan scooped her up without breaking their stride. Provem randomly scoffed to himself, annoyed at how tall the tower was. The thought never struck him before, but now that it did he was amazed at how silly a tall tower was. That and other barely registerable thoughts raced through his head as they descended. It was the only way to keep himself from panicking outright.

Suddenly Jerlene screamed and stretched her hands upwards. Turan almost dropped her, she squirmed so hard. “What’s wrong with her?” he yelled. He could barely be heard over the sickening scrape of millions of stones rubbing against one another.

“Her doll!” Provem suddenly remembered. Before anyone could stop him, he bolted back up the stairs towards the hallway where she had left her toy.

Turan had a look of disbelief on his face. “Just go!” he yelled at Laylee, and she shook her head.

“We can’t just leave him!”

“I for one plan to survive this night,” he said offhandedly above the rumble, and took off down the stairs. Laylee glanced back one more time before she stepped after him.

Jerlenne kept squirming in Turan’s grasp. Laylee could see that her eyes were panicked as she bobbed up and down in the boy’s arms. She gave a look of recognition, and Laylee turned and saw Provem racing down the stairs after them, doll in hand.

A stone bust of some long-dead Mystic began to shift on its pedestal along the wall of the staircase. Laylee had noticed it when she had raced past it, but as she glanced up she saw that it was teetering on the edge, and Provem was racing closer to it. Without thinking she held out her hand and spoke the language of Pentura, begging the stone to do her bidding. Just as it left its perch, and just as Provem ran before it and tried to stop himself, she grabbed a hold of it. She stopped it in midair, then tossed it aside. She knew it must have hit the floor below, but even that was indiscernible among the rumbling.

Provem stopped in his tracks, amazed at how close to death he had just come. The fact that Laylee had just saved his life was a thought on the edge of his mind, but getting down the stairs was a more earnest one.

The others reached the lobby first, with Provem close behind. They looked up to see the various chandeliers rattle on their chains, and they backed away from the gaping hole that pierced the center of the tower. Bits and pieces began to fall and hit the ground with a shatter. Stone busts and books bounced down the stairs. They looked to the door, but there were all kinds of bookshelves and tables full of glass in between them and the way out. It seemed that either way spelled death.

Then, the rumbling stopped. It was gradual, and they had to hold their breath to prove to themselves that it had indeed subsided, and it had. Another stone bust finally found its way to the next to bottom step of the grand staircase, its stone face chipped away to be the barely recognizable visage of the founder of the Xyrs’Nazahlia Guild of Mystics.

Provem edged his way back and looked up at the center spire of the tower. He thought that it seemed to lean now, but it could have been a trick of his eyes. Again all that was left was their labored breathing. They sat in silence, catching their breath and amazed that they were still alive.

“She spoke earlier,” Provem muttered. The others looked at him wordlessly, eyes sunken and tired. “I heard her. She whispered ‘It’s all going to fall.’”

“That’s it!” Turan said. “The whole world has gone mad. I’m leaving!” Laylee grabbed for his arm but he brushed her off of him with a glare. “Take care of yourselves.” He threw open the door and the rain and odd light made him into a silhouette in the doorway.

He took only two steps before the lighting struck. The thunder came again, and this time it started the rumbling immediately. It was more violent this time, and a whole bookshelf in the lobby toppled over, barely hitting Laylee. Turan turned and gave them a final haunted look, with a menagerie of glass and other objects between them, and started to walk away.

The ground split beneath him. It sounded like the tearing of cloth, and then the crumbling rocks and dirt poured into the increasingly gaping maw. The tear in the world grew closer to the tower until the stone tiles of the main lobby began to heave and break away. Amazingly, instead of the darkness staring back up at them, the same eerie light jumped up at them from the ground. Laylee grabbed Jerlenne and the three of them backed away. They looked back out the door in time to see Turan loose his footing and fall into one of the gaps in the world. The light swallowed him up.

“To the kitchens!” Provem screamed. Laylee paused for a moment—though it seemed like an eternity with the world crumbling around them—and then nodded. The kitchens were not actually part of the tower, but had been added later and attached onto the ancient structure. There were low windows the cooks tossed old food from that could allow them escape if they got there in time. Reluctantly they turned their backs to the increasing hole before them and ran towards the other side of the complex.

They heard the tower of Mystic Arts and History begin to give way. The rumbling increased its intensity until it was a deafening roar. The floor began to buckle, but none of them dared look back to see if the tear in the world was following them. Instead they ran headlong into the kitchens. They were as deserted as the rest of the school on the holiday of Rychala, and they had no problems moving through them towards a service window in the back.

As they entered the last kitchen room they were all blasted off their feet by a mighty gust. The shingled roof of the added-on building blew away, revealing a sky as bright as midday. Rain poured in. The mighty tower gave a final groan as it slowly began to topple. The tower leaned towards them—they knew, without a doubt, that the giant stones of their home would crush them.

The seconds it took for the stones to fall seemed like agonizing hours, but they were too numb with terror to even move. Closer now it fell, as if in a dream…

As the impossible light finally faded beneath the stones of the tower, the air crackled with energy. Pentura flowed around them, and air and stone and power filled them. The stones never came down on them. The air was dark, and they could hear stone upon stone falling on top of whatever had just shielded them.

Both Laylee and Provem held their breaths in the dark. As the sound of the stones quieted, they were able to hear a soft, sure voice in the dark.

“Jerlenne?” Laylee gasped. They could see nothing in the intense darkness, but the language of Pentura and whatever she was Guiding was like hearing their mother’s voice as a babe, though Provem had never even known his. Her Guiding was weakening, though, and she finally faltered. The stones above them shifted but held. There was another rumble of the stones of the tower settling, and then all was quiet.

Provem began to feel around in the dark until he came across Jerlenne’s still form. He pulled her close to him and felt for a pulse—her hear still beat. “She’s alive, but her breathing is shallow.” The sound of his voice made him jump.

“How did she do that?” Laylee wondered. “All that stone…”

“I don’t know,” Provem said absently. He caressed the little girl’s hair as she was lying unconscious, and wondered about the girl, and not for the first time.

“The stone must have settled itself as she Guided it.” Laylee stood and felt carefully around the dome of stone that encased them. She gave a gasp. “She melded it together. It’s like one, solid piece now.” She took on the tone of the academic, her voice becoming stronger now that she distracted herself with familiar ramblings. “The structural integrity must be strong enough to hold up all the stone of the tower that sits above us. It should hold.”

Provem nodded, then cursed himself in the dark for being a fool. “I think you’re right. I don’t know about you, but I couldn’t have done what she did.”

“Nor I,” she admitted.

“Could we move it and find a way out?”

“That may not be a good idea. I’m not sure what’s above us, and the slightest miscalculation and the stone will come down on us. I don’t think I could hold it if it did. It would be too much weight,” she thought out loud.

Provem stopped listening. All the theorizing was making his head hurt. Instead he curled in a ball, his arms wrapped around the amazing little girl who had saved them. He almost laughed when he noticed that, somehow, the girl had held onto that doll. Provem held it, too, just as he did Jerlenne. Right as they were getting comfortable the ground shook again.

“It’s coming from the ground,” Laylee said. “It’s not the tower, but something about the thunder is making it all…” she stopped talking, finally. Overcome with everything that happened, she fell silent.

Provem thought he had slept, but he wasn’t sure. Time must have passed, but when he moved Jerlenne was still there, unmoving. He couldn’t see Laylee, but he didn’t want to say anything if she were sleeping.

His back ached, though, so he gently moved the girl aside and sat up. They had about enough room for them to crouch, but that was all. He felt along the top and, as Laylee had said, their ceiling was amazingly smooth. He’d seen teachers at the tower unable to do Guided stonework as well.

The tower…it was gone. Once again, he was homeless. He thought of all the memories he would miss, all the people he would never get to laugh during and after classes with. Except for Turan, maybe, but even he had his charms. Master Laradin was gone, for certain. He wished he could have spoken to the Master, tried to figure out what the old man had discovered had been happening. Surely he had known something. With one more longing touch of the stone that had once made up his home, he sat back down with a sigh.

“He was an Ieyrisian,” Laylee suddenly said numbly. “He was the first boy I fell in love with. It was in the Middle Year, years ago. He promised me all kinds of things, and then he crossed the Veil one day and didn’t come back to my hometown for months. I was angry. When he did return with some sort of excuse I threw things at him and ran from him, screaming all kinds of hateful things. He never came back after that. I would like to ask forgiveness of him, I think.”

Provem said nothing. He felt a hand reach for him, and he found Laylee’s delicate hand in his. It was not a romantic touch, but simply a comforting one.

Ever resolute, Laylee made a strong show of herself. “We’ll run out of air soon. Or, any one of those rumbles may make one of those holes here, and we’ll fall into it. The little girl was brave, but I think all she bought us was time.”

Provem wanted desperately to hold onto some hope. But who was he? He was just a poor boy who had the fortune to find himself in a prestigious school of Mystics. As special as he was, he was not made for something like this. “I suppose we’ll die here.”

He thought he could feel Laylee trying to say something in the dark, but he couldn’t be sure and she stayed silent. Her hand was still in his. The warmth of their bodies made it sweat, but he welcomed the feeling. Contact was a precious thing now. Provem knew that, moreso than he ever had before.

The rumbles came again, stronger this time. He could feel Jerlenne stir and try to sit up. It took a great amount of willpower, but he broke from Laylee’s grasp and felt around until he could help the little girl sit up.

“Are you ok?” he asked. She gave no response, but he could tell her breathing was even. The spasm grew in intensity, and they could feel the ground shaking. Provem grabbed Jerlenne and backed up against Laylee. She held both of them tightly and both held back, afraid of loosing each other in the dark. They thought they could feel the ground begin to splinter and buckle beneath them.

“It’s happening,” Jerlenne said. Her voice was strong this time, resolute. The two older students held onto that as the ground shifted. Their once flat surface leaned to one side. Laylee screamed, and Provem’s eyes were pierced as if by daggers as the eerie light began to turn the tiles of the kitchen beneath them grow dull. Soon even that erupted and broke off, and the sickish light filled their small refuge.

Provem could see Laylee’s wide-eyed face, and Jerlenne gripped his shirt with her small hands. They tilted more as the ground split. Tiles crumbled and broke away, slipping into the light. They simply vanished. Provem held onto Jerlenne with one hand as he found his voice. He breathed in Pentura and spoke the words and part of the stone above them arched out. He Guided a handhold and gripped it. Laylee found a firm grip too. The ground began to slip away, and the rumble became a deafening roar.

With a final jerk the ground simply fell away. The light was around them, but the walls of the ground and the life it held—plant roots, animal shelters—lay bare as if it had been cut away. Laylee and Provem held onto the rock shelf Provem had made. Jerlenne fell a bit but he held her firmly by the hand. Her face showed terror, but nothing escaped her lips.

He looked at Laylee. Neither of them could Guide like this, and it was only a matter of time before they lost their grip, they knew, or the stone shelter collapsed, too. The light seemed to reach for them with tendrils made of Energy. Provem could feel Pentura round him, making his hair stand on end. This light was Pentura, but at the same time it wasn’t. It felt like it was sucking Pentura in, but the Pentura had nowhere to go.

The top of their shelter broke away, except, amazingly, for the edge that they held onto. Stone upon stone fell passed them and into the light below, where they simply vanished. One fell close to Provem and scratched his arm. Somehow he held onto Jerlenne regardless. The rain fall in with the open air after all the stone of the tower fell past them.

Suddenly he felt what seemed to be a mighty wind roar passed him. Laylee felt it, too. Below them a strange tear seemed to form out of the air above them. It started as a small point, and they could see it only because the air and Pentura and rain around them rushed towards it. It grew slowly, and seemed impossibly dark against the odd light. It grew large enough that they thought they could see objects on the other side.

“A rift in the Veil!” Laylee screamed over the rumble and squeals of the air escaping through the opening.

Provem stared at it in amazement. He’d never heard of rifts appearing like this, out of nowhere. It was so very close to them, but too far away for them to get to.

“Let me go!” Jerlenne’s thin voice called. Provem looked down into her wise eyes, and she actually smiled at him. Laylee was looking at him. What was the little girl doing? Her face read.

Provem shook his head and began to tell her that he may find another way—even though it would only buy them seconds— but she reached up and tore herself from his grasp. He screamed to her as she fell. But at the last moment, before she was engulfed in the light, she spoke with that perfect Guiding voice she possessed and coaxed the air about her.

She stayed aloft in the air, her fingers moving, her lips Guiding Pentura to her will even as it roared about her. Neither Jerlenne or Provem had enough strength to control it in this maelstrom, they both knew.

Suddenly, they felt themselves rise. Air swirled about them, holding them up as sure as the strongest hands. They could not control themselves as they were slowly brought towards the rift. Jerlenne smiled at them as her voice worked. She was keeping both of them and herself aloft. Both older students stared at her, amazed.

The rift in the Veil drew nearer as they rose. It engulfed them. Their ears popped, the air about them changed and swirled. The light began to slowly vanish as another night sky materalized before them. The force of all the Pentura coming in from behind forced them out violently. Jerlenne’s hold on the air around them broke and they fell hard on solid, grassy ground.

Both turned back and watched as the girl edged closer. Looking through the Veil skewed everything on the other side—she looked misshapen in the light. Finally she fell through as well, forced out of the rift. Provem rose and caught her The three fell back and began to crawl away.

The rift howled. They could almost see Pentura escape through the rift and vanish into the sky. The rift held there for another moment, and then began to flicker. The light, glowing with every color of the spectrum, they thought, began to vanish as the rift closed. Finally, the point of light simply closed in on itself and was no more.

The wind stopped its howl. Blinded by the sudden lack of light, the three held each other until they could begin to make out their surroundings. They lay in a field, green and fresh. After a moment of silence the sound of the wildlife around them resumed their songs.

The three lay there, huddled together, for a long while. There was nothing they could say. Soon the coming dawn began to peek over the horizon. Provem turned and sat up. He eventually stood. The dawn that greeted him was not like anything he had seen before.

The others stood with him. “We’re in Ieyrisia, aren’t we?” Jerlenne asked quietly as Laylee held her close.

“It doesn’t matter. I’ve been homeless three times now,” Provem said to them, the dawn casting a glow on his face that made him look peaceful, almost, though the events of the night were still clear on his face. “I plan to make the best of this home now, wherever it may be.”

An Article on A Theory of the Nature of Pentura

By Po’reva Vigre, Mystic of the Grand School of Merwyngan, city of Treync, 3007 AP

It came to me the other day, as I sat on the many balconies that ring our glorious Tower of Odorb, that Pentura is most closely linked to water, the one element that many see as the most inferior of the Five. I thought of this as I observed the mighty Tyforea River spill its contents into the green waters of the Bay of the Twin Gems. The clear river water made way to the ocean’s hue, and I pondered about what would happen should the river reverse itself and spill upriver, all the way to the mountain source where the water originates.

I was tempted to Guide it to do just that, but I knew that it would be futile. I lacked the talent to goad that much water to do my bidding, though many of you who visit me often in my study would remark that my young son Ismile could do it, even though he is not yet ten years. However, I digress into a mother’s pride, which is not the point of this article. If, by the will of the Nameless Gods Whom Left Us, I could coax that much Pentura to upend the ocean into the river it would simply reverse its flow, but the water would take on the nature of the river. It would become as clear as the river water, but the water itself would not change.

This is much like Pentura, the cyclical power that infuses all life with its essences. At creation the Nameless Gods Who Left Us took the secret of life and infused it in all Ieyrisians and taught us its archaic language (and, after that, the Nazahle stole it from us, as is their nature), and let us share in their gifts before they fled and left us godless. However, even now I doubt anyone truly understands it. Is it in all things? Can it be destroyed?

I believe, as do many of my colleagues, that Pentura is like the water. It can never be destroyed, only changed by Alteration. It can become a mist that reaches into the sky, or hard as ice on the mountaintops. It never truly vanished. Fire can be extinguished. Air can be stilled and rendered useless. Earth can be crumbed to dust. Light can be swallowed up within darkness. But water is the holiest the Five. As are we all dependant on water to live, and as our bodies are made up of water, so is Pentura. Water emulates the cycles and changing and the fickleness of Pentura in its existence.

How many times has Guiding or Alteration slipped through our fingers as easily as water? How often do you feel cleansed in the power of Pentura just as strongly as if you had bathed in waters lit by the moons? It is water that cleans, just as Pentura cleans the soul. But, also, water can be deadly. To be completely submerged within it will spell the end of even the most focused Mystic. I’ve seen Sorcerers --who can only Guide Pentura but cannot Alter as we can, the Mystics who have been kissed by Pentura since birth-- counter the most basic of fire Guidings with ease, only to be overcome with water as it filled their lungs.

As I looked out onto the Bay I realized another way that Pentura hints at its mysteries. In the deep recesses of the ocean, the water is rich and powerful. Such is the nature of one who is deep with Pentura, and has the Energy fill them like a fire in the belly. Those with less aptitude for Pentura are like riverwater—light, airy, and bubbling along. They lack the serious concentration and power of one who has Mastered their craft. Fire is not the same way, nor any of the other elements. Only water, and it is in water that we should all look to see the way to Guide.

Do you notice the way water flows with such ease, even as the pull of earth tries to rush it to the ground from high distances? Such should we all Guide and Alter. Like water should our delicate movements be, and our words should flow like the bubble of a brook when we do simple things, and roar like the ocean in a storm when we call forth all the power of Pentura to smite our enemies. We should call forth Pentura into our bodies much like water flows from a jar to a cup. It is that simple—it is that easy.

Some other Mystics may not agree with me, of course. The savage Moon cult on the Zentisal Isles will no doubt say I am unholy and favor water of the light of the moons that their god provides them. I say they are fools! If they could only stop and think with cleared minds they would see.

And as the sun set over the water I realized yet another way that Pentura was like the water—Pentura is as beautiful as the water at dusk, full of rich colors that dance on its surface. Though light is itself powerful, what comparison can it hold to the way the water makes the light appear! It enhances it, makes it better and more beautiful.

As Pentura should make all of us better, my Brothers and Sisters. We should use the gifts that we were given and rejoice. For, only there, can we see life as it was meant to be seen the way that we were meant to see it—as simple as seeing our reflection in a pool of crystal clear water.

An Introduction

Hello and welcome to the start of (what we hope to be) the beginning of a grand adventure in the wonderful world of literature. By “we,” I am referring to me, Paul Brodo, and my fellow friend/collaborator, Ransom Prestridge. Our goal of this web log, or blog, as many call it, is to introduce our beloved fantasy world to the public.

Over two years ago, Ransom and I came up with this crazy idea to write a novel. Now, after many revisions and changes later, we realized that one book would not be enough. Now spanning a total of six books, this tale will span a multitude of characters, as well as several hundred years, in the end. Though our novels are mainly fantasy, we hope to incorporate other genres into our writing, making for a unique reading experience.

As for this blog, its main purpose is to introduce people to our world before we publish our first book, and to chronicle our progress as we write the other five. With that said, thank you for visiting this page, and we hope you enjoy the world of Ieyrisia as much as we have enjoyed creating it.

~ Paul

Short story: "Honor and Glory"

Welcome, one and all! I'm Ransom, the other half of this dynamic duo. We plan to post short stories that deal with our world, and maybe even the characters, that appear in our novels. But our main goal is to get our writing out there, to get constructive criticism, and to hopefully garner interest for this endeavor that we've worked so hard on for so long.

So, here is our first short story contribution. If you happen to come across our little blog, you're welcome to read, discuss, ect. Thanks for dropping by!

~Ransom

-------HONOR AND GLORY--------

We live the life we are born to live. We unite the land with our courage. We are all-

A blow to the jaw brought the young man to his senses. Stumbling back, the green field that surrounded him came blurrily back into view. His fallen comrades seemed like indistinct gleaming spots on the hillside, and the dead Dyria appeared like dark stains around them. The living—writhing and fighting all around him still—moved as if in a dream. The sharp-muzzled Pythians who nipped at the Knight’s gleaming armor with their teeth and looked for the chinks in their defenses with their crude wooden weapons outnumbered the soldiers of Evanon on the field this day.

The world became sharper, until he was himself once again. He barely had time to hold onto his sword while he blocked the next attack from the snarling creature in front of him. Its eyes knew nothing but hatred as it barreled down on him. Dull brown and black fur hid warrior’s muscles, but the toothy grin it bore was feral and distorted. It almost looked Ieyrisian, except for the angled snout and claws and cat-like legs. Wood chips flew as the young knight’s finely wrought sword parried the wooden spear that tried furiously to end his life. As the Knight ran back he had the presence of mind to step over a fallen man. The Dyria was not so lucky. It lost its footing and fell, only to be trampled accidentally by a Knight mounted on a luxdrak’i. The animal’s two strong rear legs trampled the furry creature before both man and beast made their way to another part of the battle. The shriek that emanated from the luxdrak’i’s bird-like muzzle rang in the young knight’s ears. It sounded like it was taunting him for not doing the job himself.

Shaking his head, he backed away. His eyes began to become blurry, but he found his way and looked out towards the fight. The Dyria and the knights had met on the field early in the morning, and now it was well after noon. Plenty of the Evanon troops were still fighting but many more had fallen. Their enemies had been more savage than they had ever imagined. The white tunics of the Evanonian Knights of Maka'latailion were too few among the throngs as the young man looked about. His own tunic was splattered with blood of all kinds. Some of it belonged to the half-animal Pythians, some to Knights he had held while they died—but most of it belonged to him.

He wiped away his blond hair from his face. He was young, barely a Knight himself, and this was his first battle.

He also knew it would be his last.

The wound in his stomach was still bleeding. His armor was bent and torn aside by two Dyria who had descended upon him and clawed their way through his steel skin. They had both been cut down from behind as the young man had thrashed and screamed in a voice that seemed at the time to be too high to be his own. But he had survived. He had risen as a Knight and continued the fight. That was ages ago, it seemed. Now there was no healer in sight, no way to find his way back to a camp. It was simply chaos around him.

Instead he walked the battlefield, stumbling forward with increasing difficulty. A Dyria saw him stumbling and hefted its spear to attack. The young man’s eyesight was getting worse and he barely had time to move. But the Pythian warrior had overextended himself and lost balance. With a well practiced move, the best he would ever make in his short life, the young Knight sliced through the neck of the beast and killed it.

But with the exertion he, too, fell. He was down on one knee, both hands gripping his sword. His eyes were closed in a feeble attempt to gain focus in his mind, but instead he felt awash in a sea of vertigo. He held the blade of his sword against his face and felt the surprising coolness of it. It made his whole being numb. But in moments the blood ran down the blade towards the hilt, and ribbons of warmth interrupted his moment of peace.

-warriors in the world, and we all fight for the same cause…We connect Ieyrisia as one through our deeds, and we protect the ones who cannot-

“Get up! We may win yet!” His peace was disturbed by a fellow knight who picked him up by the arms. His eyes opened quickly and he looked up to the face that hovered before him. He knew this man, had grown up with him and had been trained by him…

--------

“Boy, you must learn focus!” Another gentle cuff from the older Knight’s hand made the squire wince. But the man was sincere, and had trained him since he had come to the Knights in the Capitol city of Evanon ten years ago. Over time he had learned to trust and respect this man, who was more of a friend than a master.

Focus was important for him now, and he was tested often by the older Knight. His Knight’s trial was in a few days, and as soon as it was over he would ride out with his fellows to stop a Pythian uprising in the east. Dyria, he expected, as they are the most savage of the beast folk and did not accept their place as paupers in the world. They were barely animals, and they would be his first battle! His hands already shook with the excitement of it and the glory to come. Today he was taking a day off, walking through the city he had so seldom had time to visit over the past years. But it would soon be over, and he would soon be a Knight. His hard work would be evident to all and he would be able to live, finally.

He gingerly rubbed the back of his head, but his pain was subsided by seeing…her. Long brown hair flowed from underneath her bonnet, and she walked along the market street with a light skip. Her eyes were the color of the light blue sky that seemed to gleam even from this distance. He remembered seeing her years ago in one of his few times outside the compound. And every year after that he would run into her and watch her grow as he himself did. But he was too shy and never spoke to her. He always hoped to see her at the market and Maka'latailion surely smiled on him this day. She looked radiant for no other reason than because she existed.

The sight of her made him begin to sweat. His nerves went on end, and he had to work to keep his mouth from gaping. A moment passed where she looked up from the basket she carried and their eyes met. The squire tried to smile, but his face was frozen. She smiled at him, though, probably laughing at his stare. But then the moment passed. She walked on.

“I’ll talk to her next time,” he told his mentor, who looked at him with a grin. “After my knighthood and when I return to the battle in glory, I will talk to her then. She’ll be impressed by me.” His reverie was broken by the older knight testing him again, but he was prepared this time. His hand came up and stopped the blow. His master smiled. He would be ready for battle…

---------

But he could not remember his teacher’s name, no matter how hard he tried. His weakening mind could barely control his body.

As if in slow motion, the mentor whose name he should have known ran off and swung his sword above his head, yelling the battle cry of Maka'latailion. The young blonde knight stood there, beginning to follow but not really meaning to move. His stomach ached, still, but it began to grow like a dull itch he couldn’t scratch. Knights behind him rode on to the battle on top of the green and brown hill, passing from view as they chased the Dyria that apparently had suddenly turned and fled. The knights would follow them all the way to their homeland gorge, he thought, all the way to the Dirk’Kal peaks if it satiated their thirst for justice.

The young Knight kept moving and held his gaze on what he thought was a waving comrade in front of him, though it was no more than a white speck in his vision. He began to catch up and was alongside him before he knew it. He wiped an eye caked in blood and saw more clearly. The knight he had been heading towards was dead, run through by a Pythian spear. The Dyria clan flag was tied onto the end of the weapon and continued to wave at the young Knight. He thought it appeared to be mocking him.

He fell to his knees and looked at the face of the older man. His eyes were open, staring straight up towards the heavens. One hand gripped the spear shaft, probably in a last attempt to remove it from his impaled body. The other lay open on the ground, as if forgotten.

The young Knight wavered again, feeling weak. The hills left him. It grew quiet, and he floated into memories as warm as a mother’s embrace. He suddenly remembered there was a battle and looked around to follow, a battle cry almost on his lips. The hair on his neck stood on end as he lifted his sword around him to do away with the nearest foe. He was alone. All around him lay the bodies of Dyria, Knights, and mounts. Weapons lay forgotten, like toys that a child no longer finds interest in. The blonde-headed boy looked up to the sky and was amazed at the blueness of it. Had it ever been that blue before? It was as blue as eyes of the girl from the market.

-protect themselves. We uphold the honor of the King and the Queen, and we serve with a silver sword and a stout heart. May we forever ride for the protection of the land. We live for the-

A shiver brought him back to the present. His breaths came in short gasps, his eyes no longer seeing the infinity of the sky. The only thing he felt at that moment was the grass against his face. He didn’t remember falling over.

His heart beat irregularly in his ears as the blood went to and fro. All his eyes could make out now was the hand of the old dead knight. Again he realized it was open, and wondered why he kept thinking about that. The palm was wrinkled and old, callused from years of work with the sword.

“And what has it brought you?” the young man asked, and his soul jumped at the sound of his own voice. It was the only hint of life in a place full of death. The battle had moved on without him, so far he could no longer hear the cries of war. Silence descended again as his voice faded. Silence, except for the beating of his own slowing heart. It occurred to him that he should pray to Maka'latailion, as he had been trained to. The prayers did not come, now. Nor did he feel the warmth of the embrace he was told he always would experience once death came for him.

-Glory of the Highest Eagle Maka'latailion of Evanon, and we-

“No!” he shouted, breaking the stillness more. Nothing moved at the sound. His chest hurt, but not from the wound. He wanted to live, he wanted to go back home and talk to the pretty girl at the market. He wanted to see the proud gleam in his father’s eye as he was accepted as a Knight. He wanted to embrace his mother and kiss his younger sister, barely a woman yet. So many things he had done every day that he wanted to do now. But he would not be able to. The Knight held his hands to his chest, feeling them, as if for the first time. He desperately wanted to fill them with something; the pretty girl’s hair, his much neglected lute which he had been practicing when he found a chance to steal away from life, or the water in the fountain outside the Knight’s Quarters. He often sat there and felt the cool water after long days of practice, easing his hurt and bleeding hands.

He did not want his hands to be like the dead man’s before him—lifeless, empty. The sword he had been given by his now forgotten mentor lay to his side, but the very sight of it brought a convulsion of tears to his fading eyes. His body began to wrack with sobs that cut like daggers

The Knight of the Evanon gripped his hands to his chest and cried out of pure, unabashed self pity. The warmth of his hands began to grow cold. He was soon unable to feel the grass on his face. The sound of his heart beating, and the feel of it against his clasped hands, began to fade away as well. The last thing that went through the mind of the Knight was the last line of the Oath he had spoken only days before, and the rest of his being flooded with pity for the world he had lived in, and the life he had wasted.

-die for the Honor of our Kingdom.