Raina Nightingale interviewed me about Fatal Shadow and other stuff. You can check it out here.
Trapped in his chrysalis of waterproof fabric, Frater Yory could do little except read the slim pamphlet he had brought over and over, until every word, every syllable, had been stamped into his consciousness. The mournful poetry of the exiled Rhumgadian poet, Versifer, captured his own melancholy perfectly. Here he was, clinging to a dragon’s tail ten thousand leagues from the golden halls of the Panatheneum, risking his life for another book and the knowledge it contained.
In between readings, he fell into the habit of staring at his wrist attracton, a wondrous gizmo, about twice the size of a Nosteran ducat, that told not the time but the location of its wearer in the huge void between worlds known as the Crevast. Yory had begun to despair that it had malfunctioned when the shrill ring of its alarm filled the tent. Turning it off, he strapped on the slim backpack holding his folded glider and the belt containing the tools of his trade. He threw a cloak over his matte black armor and slipped on his mask. He tucked the poetry book into a bag on his belt. It didn’t feel right to abandon a book, no matter how common and well read.
The wind ripped away the tent as soon as Yory cut through it. He watched it dance and writhe on the breeze until it shrank into the inky distance, then turned his attention to the black, hulking edifice standing before him. Its tens of slits flickered invitingly, but it was no inn. It was the sterncastle of a saddledeck and the scaly hillock on which it stood was the back portion of a dragon, the Baleful Shade. Yory stepped toward it, careful to hook his boots into the creature’s scales to avoid following his tent into the void. Beyond the dragon, villages lit up the curtain of cliffs at the brink of the continental shard of Magmel. Ahead lay the fabled city of Shamta, gleaming like a cluster of blue-white crystals. Yory had to recover the book and escape before the dragon reached it.
Reaching the sterncastle, he gently lifted one of its gunport flaps and peered inside. Two of the crew lay facedown on the deck. Another was draped over a cannon. Surely they couldn’t have passed out from drink. They emitted not the slightest hint of a snore, which was unusual and slightly alarming.
The port was too small for him to enter, so he used the gunports to climb up to the top deck of the structure. More unconscious crew littered saddledeck. Loose and torn sails billowed in the breeze and whipped about unsecured ropes. If pyrates had attacked the dragon, Yory surely would have noticed.
He crouched beside the nearest insensate man and turned him over. The draker was cold to the touch, but showed no sign of injury.
Whatever had happened, it made Yory’s recovery of the book even more urgent. He located the open hatch to the hold and descended the ladder.
He found the door of the chamber where the book was stored ajar. A metal pick protruded from the chest’s lock.
A thud behind Yory made him turn around. The bald, thin man standing before him was accoutered in similar fashion to Yory, except the stranger hadn’t bothered to wear a mask. He must have supposed he didn’t need one, having murdered any witnesses.
“It’s rather dangerous to leave the chest’s lock in that state,” Yory said, trying to sound casual. “The lock is booby-trapped. What department are you?”
The man’s sneer deepened. “Pyratical Studies.”
“I’m Pre-Cataclysm,” Yory said, doing his best to wring the tremble from his voice. “The book falls under my department’s remit.”
“Nonsense,” the stranger said. Metal quills protruded between his fingers like claws, each sharpened nib containing whatever toxin he had used to massacre the crew. “The tome is a copy of a Pre-Cataclysm original. It was part of the Emperor of the Void’s library and, as such, is the rightful property of my department.”
“I can’t believe any member of the Panatheneum would massacre the crew of a dragon for a book, no matter how precious.” Yory knew even as he spoke, it was a mistake, but anger had gotten the better of him.
“I’m Pater Viliber. You may have heard of me.”
Yory had. Pater Viliber was famed across the Panatheneum for his exploits. He had retrieved many rare tomes, often in the most challenging circumstances.
“You have, I see,” Viliber said. “Well, I spilled much blood to earn that reputation. I have killed hundreds, thousands, in the service of the Panatheneum. Your squeamishness is why you’re doomed to fail. You don’t want it enough. You must be a silly little frater on his first mission. Why do you think your mentors trained you to kill? We’re fighting a war to preserve knowledge and wars have casualties. The lives on board this dragon are inconsequential compared to the survival of this book. Besides, I only killed the crew of the saddledeck, not the cinchdeck or the headstall. I’m getting out of here before the dragon perches. I suggest you do the same.”
It was the dismissive way he turned his back that spurred Yory to draw his knife and lunge at him. “That book is my department’s, you thief!”
An array of glinting nibs jabbed at his face, forcing him to jerk his head back. A kick to the stomach sent Yory sprawling backward against the chest. As he tried to rise, Viliber pounced on him, his quills aimed at Yory’s eyes.
“I tried being collegial and letting you live, and this is how you repay my generosity,” Viliber said.
Yory forced himself to look from the nibs and stare into Viliber’s cruel eyes. “You said I needed to toughen up. You were right. I never imagined I could ever kill people in cold blood like you. Teach me. I’m a librarian already. Accept me into your department and I will do my best to be worthy of your trust.”
The nibs wavered as Viliber cogitated, no doubt calculating if Yory was worth the effort. “I’m sorry, Frat. I work alone.”
“I’m sorry, too,” Yory said, yanking the pick from the chest lock. The booby-trap exploded, punching a hole in Viliber’s side. Yory crawled from under the groaning man, thankful his foe’s deadly quills lay scattered on the surrounding floor. Flinging open what remained of the chest’s lid, he grabbed the book wrapped in cerulean silk from its resting place and raced out the door.
Viliber loped after him, listing to one side as he pressed a bloody cloth to his wound. “I’ve changed my mind. Your gumption has impressed me. Give me back that book and I’ll arrange your transfer to Pyratical Studies as a pater.”
Several loud thumps came from the deck above, followed by the thud and scuff of boots against the boards. Yory paused at the bottom of the ladder to the saddledeck, glimpsed the distant belly of a dragon through the open hatch. The Baleful Shade’s headstall must have signaled Shamta that its saddledeck was under attack, spurring the city to dispatch a boarding party to investigate.
As Yory dithered over what he should do, a humming ball of metal rolled between his feet. Viliber’s distant horselaugh mocked him as he raced away from the bomb. It exploded with a blinding flash, its loud boom knocking Yory to the floor. As the rain of wood fragments subsided, Yory glanced behind him. The ladder was gone and in its place, an enormous hole had been gouged in the decks. From somewhere above came panicked and angry shouts.
“You could have damaged the book,” Yory whispered to Viliber who stood on the opposite side of the hole.
“Take it as a sign of my confidence in your abilities, little Frater. It’s a pity your glider is busted.”
One of the folded wings hung limply from its backpack, broken and tattered. In disgust, Yory hit the release catch where the straps crisscrossed his heart and let it drop to the floor.
“Have no fear,” Viliber said, gesturing with his hand. “Your efforts are not in vain. My glider is in working order. Just give me the book and I will safely take it away from here.”
A rope dropped from above. At any moment, the boarding party would ascend.
“No time to wait,” Viliber insisted. “Give me the book.”
Yory leaped at the rope, grabbed it, drawing gasps and astonished cries from the soldiers above. As it swung near the far side, he let go, depending on his momentum would carry him across the gap. He rolled across the floor, slammed into Viliber and punched the clasp on his foe’s glider pack. Yory reached for the falling pack but abandoned it to block Viliber’s dagger as it swept toward him. While the two rivals grappled, more ropes descended. Soldiers armed with springbows slid down them. As they took aim, Yory seized Viliber and spun him into the path of their weapons. Several bolts dinged against Viliber’s armor, but one struck the back of his head, leaving a look of utter shock on his face and a triangular point peeping out of his slack jaw.
Yory used the dead man as a shield against a second volley while he slipped on the glider pack and grabbed a bomb in Viliber’s belt. As the soldiers struggled to prime their weapons for a third time, he dashed into the nearest compartment, and, yanking the pin from the bomb, tossed it against the wall with too much force. As it rolled back in his direction, he threw himself clear of its path. It passed through the doorway, eliciting cries from pursuing soldiers, only to reverse course with a whack back into the room.
As it rolled over to the outer wall, Yory covered his head with arms. The pulverizing force of the explosion reverberated through him. The air was thick with dust and splinters. Something heavy fell on top of him. Raindrops dampening his face helped him shake off his daze, and he crawled from under the fragment of wall or roof—he couldn’t tell which. The outer wall had been ripped away and nothing lay beyond except black, rainy void. Still clinging to the book, he released the unfolding mechanism of his glider and its wings spread out behind him. It didn’t look damaged, but could he be certain he could rely on it?
Yory didn’t wait to find out who had shouted or what they were aiming at him. He leaped into the slobbery darkness. A great wing rose in front of him like a tsunami of leather, forcing him to bank hard to the right. He squeezed through the narrow gap between the saddle and the wing until the latter fell away. As he glided away from the Baleful Shade, he glimpsed the holes punched in its saddle by Viliber’s bombs. The lights of its headstall and saddledeck blinked urgently at each other, while the headstall of the second dragon flying by its side no doubt observed the conversation. At any moment, one or both of the dragons might pursue him.
Yory steered for Magmel—it didn’t matter where. He hadn’t enough lift to reach the top of the cliffs, so he picked a broad ledge to land on. As he drew closer, he realized it was wider than he had imagined. There were several irrigated fields where he could safely land. As soon as he touched down, he unwrapped the book’s blood-spattered silk cocoon with trembling hands and sighed with relief. The ancient cookbook was undamaged.
© Noel Coughlan
A lie made Drinith one of Gyre’s rulers. It secured the city state’s support against her enemy, the tyrant Magian the Infinite. Now it threatens to destroy her.
Drinith voyages to Gyre’s bitterest rival, Ophigee, to convince its rulers to join the fight against Magian. But her audience with her hosts turns into an ambush.
Quick thinking wins her a reprieve from the execution block, but the route to salvation may well prove more treacherous than anything she has faced before. Everyone who attempts the journey she must undertake vanishes without trace. Can she succeed where they failed and uncover the secret that threatens not only Ophigee but her adopted homeland?
Greater Evil is the second book in the Champions of Fate, an epic fantasy series with fast-paced action, intriguing characters, and imaginative world-building. The ebook (Amazon only) and paperback are available HERE
The first book in the series, Fatal Shadow, free until 4th March, can be found HERE.
As I’m planning to launch Greater Evil on 28th February, I thought it worthwhile to do a bit of an introduction/refresher to sailed dragons used to travel across the vast distances of void between shards.
The crew of such dragons are known as drakers. Originally, they hailed from the fabled Aerhaunt Archipelago but they spread across the Crevast and mixed with other cultures, leading to most crews have diverse ancestories. They regard themselves as distinct from the peoples living on shards and refer to them as Landlubbers. They worship dragons rather than gods.
Though fiercely independent, they have built many powerful kingdoms in the past. They were unified briefly under the Emperor of the Crevast, but his empire fractured after his mysterious disappearance. Gyre and Ophigee are two successor states. During the Crevast Empire period, the peoples of the shards called them pyrates, a name that now only applies to those who engage in illegal activity.
Typically, the vessel on the back of the dragon is called the saddledeck. The saddlemaster is the senior officer on the saddledeck. From most viewpoints, it looks like a ship and most parts of it are named using nautical terms. However, the hull has two keels allowing the saddledeck to straddle the dragon’s back. The dragon’s dorsal spikes stick through the hull giving the saddledeck some added ‘grip’. A strap around the dragon’s midriff is critical to keep the saddledeck secure.
This strap is protected by the cinchdeck, a series of connected compartments across the dragon’s belly. These compartments can be used for transporting people or goods. The cinchdecks of most drake-o’-wars are equipped with cannons. The cinchmaster is in charge of the cinchdeck.
The headstall is a structure under the dragon’s frill that extends in a band around the dragon’s head. A key part of it is the pineye, the compartment from where the captain commands. Generally, the pineye is easy to spot because of its large, hemispherical window. The whisperers are also based in the headstall. They are the drakers who communicate directly with the dragon by crawling into the dragon’s ears. They are treated with reverence by the rest of the crew and are paid in dragon wax.
Because the headstall is subject to the movement of the dragon’s head, navigation is managed in a compartment in the saddledeck’s quarterdeck called the whereabout. This contains an attracton, a ‘compass’ which is pulled toward different shards to varying degrees based on their relative positions. The whereabout also communicates with the headstall by means of signal lights. Commands are relayed to the cinchdeck by speaking tubes.
The dragon must bend back its head to facilitate boarding of the headstall from the saddledeck. The gap between them is bridged by the springboard. During flight, the headstall, saddledeck, and cinchdeck are physically isolated from each other so trust between the captain and his two senior officers is critical.
I’ve recently finished a long series on my newsletter on the mythology of The Golden Rule duology (A Bright Power Rising/The Unconquered Sun). I wrote the original Book of Seven Lights when I was fourteen and revised it countless times over the years. You can check it out HERE.
Travel by wing & sail to the floating city of Gyre. Get Fatal Shadow for free on Amazon until 22nd April. Check it out HERE.
(You can find Chapter 1 HERE.)
A high-pitched cry pierced Quiescat’s heart. In the instant he took to react, Gelasin had dashed out of the room. Quiescat stumbled after him into the corridor.
Anxious faces peered through opening doors. A stranger, claret-skinned and yellow-eyed, stepped into the hall, naked save for his rapier. Another assassin. Quiescat froze.
The man arched a hairless eyebrow. “It’s me, Halyard.” He pointed to a pair of interlocked emblems tattooed in yellow on his chest. One of them, an alerion taking flight, belonged to his lover; the other, a peridexion tree, must be his own. Below them was a straight, bright scar. Stripped of his fine clothes and makeup, the courtesar was all but unrecognizable. He looked a much older man, particularly with his cropped pate. His signature feathery coiffure was clearly a wig. The absence of his platform shoes was likewise telling, robbing him of both real and figurative stature.
The gray-blue lowlander, Zin, burst from the opposite room in full armor, sword in one hand, dagger in the other. A murderous grin was set in the diamond of laughter lines between the sharp nose and prominent chin of his long, scrawny face. His black hair was even neatly tied back. Gelasin must have forewarned him but not the courtesar, for some reason.
The far end of the corridor filled with the echoey thuds of rushing palace guards, arrived much too late.
“You all wait here!” Gelasin growled as he dashed into Drinith’s room. Zin’s grin slid away as he staggered to a halt. Quiescat slipped between him and Halyard and followed Gelasin inside.
The fault for this debacle lay with Quiescat, not Gelasin. Quiescat shouldn’t have let the warrior sway him. Fighting and killing was the limit of Gelasin’s understanding. He respected only killers like Zin and couldn’t countenance following anyone who didn’t share his infatuation with violence. The supposed wiser man had heeded the counsel of a bloodthirsty old fool.
Jarma stood by the bed, her face stretched with horror, a bloody axe dangling from her hand. Quiescat followed her dazed stare to where the princess lay. Gelasin’s crouched back obscured everything except her bare feet. Quiescat seized the warrior’s shoulder to pull him out of the way. Gelasin swung around and punched him so hard he flew backward across the room, smacking the wall. He kept upright despite his stupefaction. His nose throbbed with raw pain. Rivulets of blood tickled his lips and chin.
“You damned lunatic!” Quiescat spluttered.
“Sorry,” Gelasin said with a casual shrug. “Force of habit. My reflexes are honed to react instantaneously to uninvited contact.”
Scowling, Quiescat sought his handkerchief and delicately pressed it to his nose. “I’m sure it’s broken,” he observed sullenly.
“Shall I just let Drinith bleed while I set it for you? A simple procedure. I’ll just hold your beak between my hands and twist—”
“Of course not,” said Quiescat, taken aback. Trust Gelasin to make him feel contemptible despite being the victim of his fist. “How bad is she?”
Gelasin examined the wound for an unbearable length of time before he set about treating it. “She’s fine. The cut’s superficial.” He shifted to reveal the princess’s blood-spattered face. Too weak to speak, she wore a brave grin to confirm Gelasin’s assertion—and to conceal her distress from her companions. Quiescat’s relief numbed the sting of his injury.
Gelasin picked up the assassin’s blade. “Yeah, she’s fine—as long as the blade was clean. He looks like he’s from our home shard.”
Still holding the handkerchief to his stinging nose, Quiescat strode over to the headless corpse. Kneeling stiffly, he examined it. He turned one hand over to discover a tattoo on its palm: five white stars arranged in a circle. “His order doesn’t resort to poison.” The pentaculars never needed to. They always killed their quarry by dint of sheer determination and brute strength. “And they’re not from Rhumgad. They’re local.” He warned Gelasin off interrogating him with a shake of his head. The motion made his nose hurt worse.
An officer pushed his way through the onlookers walling the doorway. Beneath his massive finned helmet, his face blushed violet. “Is the princess injured?” he piped.
“She’ll live,” Gelasin sneered.
“The Aether Emperor must be informed.”
“Disturb your master’s sleep if you must, but the princess has already dealt effectively with the threat—as any fool can plainly see.” The officer, top lip twitching, let the effrontery pass.
“We’ll need a new bedchamber for her, obviously,” Gelasin added. “Take care of that, won’t you?”
The officer spun on his heels and elbowed his way through the sea of gawkers. Gelasin bounded after him and herded them across the threshold. Quiescat’s acolyte, Abecedar, squeezed inside before the warrior slammed the door, his dark eyes bugging more than usual as they darted about the room.
“Master, you’re hurt! How?” He reached for the bloody handkerchief Quiescat pressed to his nose.
“No need to concern yourself.” Smiling, he gently brushed Abecedar’s hand away. “It was an accident. Right, Gelasin?” He shot his rival a condemning glance.
“Hey, I said I was sorry.”
Clutching a bedsheet around her with one hand, Jarma still held the axe in the other. Her red and gold wig leaned precariously to one side. A shred of dried glue marked her forehead where her paste jewel had been located. She looked lost and a little annoyed. She had reason to be. Distracted by Drinith’s injury, everyone had forgotten the poor girl.
“Are you okay?” Quiescat reached out to reassure her, but she flinched from his touch. The axe slipped from her fingers and clattered against the floor. Abecedar stumbled over it and threw his arms around her. She didn’t hesitate to reciprocate his consoling hug. Quiescat did his best to suppress a smile. Would she be so eager for his attention after Abecedar succeeded him? Many people dreaded the Oracle of Godsdoor more than any assassin. They feared the truth he possessed, even those who sought to learn it. His temple had been razed during Drinith’s infancy, and the only future he could now glimpse was his end, but the mystique of his position still daunted most folk—except Gelasin. To him, the oracle, like the princess, was just another weapon to wield in his personal war against Magian the Infinite. But then, the warrior appeared to fear nothing, not even death.
“You never said she’d be wounded,” Gelasin carped.
“I warned you of the dangers.”
The rawness of Quiescat’s indignation surprised Gelasin. Quiescat hadn’t foreseen Drinith’s wounding and his unease about Gelasin’s scheme had been vague at best. As his powers waned, the seer clung even tighter to the illusion of omniscience. Yes, the great Oracle of Godsdoor had degenerated into a petty street conjurer dependent on deception and sleight of hand to keep a step ahead of the other vagrants.
Gelasin pressed: “You never said—”
“If I had, would you—”
“Enough.” The disconcerting faintness of Drinith’s voice silenced him. Her feeble effort to rise drew everyone to her. Even with Gelasin and Abecedar supporting her, she looked as though she might collapse at any moment.
“Sit on the bed,” Gelasin urged.
She shook her head as she pressed a hand to her bandaged wound. “Take me from here,” she said, desperation edging her voice. “Somewhere I can wash away this bloody mess.”
“You’re crying.” It took Quiescat a moment to realize Jarma was talking to him. “I’ve never seen tears shine so,” she added. Gelasin and Drinith likewise looked upon him with keen interest.
Abecedar, meanwhile, regarded his master with a predatory leer. He knew what these tears meant: another prophecy had come to pass, another step nearer Quiescat’s end—and, with it, the passing of his oracular power to his sole acolyte. Poor misguided fool! It was too late to warn him. He had already committed his life to the pursuit of the gift. He wouldn’t listen any more than Quiescat had in his day.
“Don’t weep for me,” Drinith said. “I’ll be fine.”
Quiescat mirrored her wan smile and wiped the tears from his cheeks. He must relinquish his ability to his acolyte, or it would die with him. Drinith needed oracular protection and Quiescat was spent, a husk of a man who couldn’t see beyond his impending death. But was Abecedar ready for this terrible burden?
Fatal Shadow is available for pre-order on Amazon.
(You can find Chapter 1 HERE.)
The clamminess of the dagger’s hilt made Drinith’s palm itch as she waited behind the door for the man coming to murder her. She felt none of the readiness Gelasin had claimed to see in her. Stripped of her mail shirt, her tunic felt flimsy. Her heart leapt wildly at every swoop and swoon of the wind beyond the palace.
Another young woman with a cloud of red and gold hair, her living reflection, lay in her bed, creating an eerie sense of disembodiment. The candlelight made the cyan gem shine like a star against the green-black night of her forehead. A sheet of red silk molded around her sprawled body, drawing the eye with its vulnerable nakedness. Beneath the massive pillows, however, the girl held an axe.
How could her handmaid, Jarma, display such remarkable calm knowing all the while an assassin drew near? She had disguised herself as Drinith so that the assassin would assume it was she who lay in the bed. If only Drinith could check her nerves as easily as her friend did and quell the flutter in the pit of her stomach. If she failed this test, both of their lives would be forfeited. It would have been easier to face the assassin alone.
This scheme was the height of folly. She should have never agreed to it.
But it was too late now to send Jarma away. The bright yellow light spilling through the long windows had already darkened to the burnt orange gloom of a Crevast night. The assassin could arrive at any moment.
Her whole body reverberated with the urgent throbbing of her heart. She needed to calm down. She practiced her moves—her dance, as Gelasin dubbed it.
Something flickered in the corner of her eye; a pair of curved shadows bit into the stripe of light beneath the doorway before it disappeared. She held her breath as the handle silently rotated downward. She stepped back as the door gently swung open with nary a creak. Her heart thumped so loudly in the silence an absurd panic gripped her lest her would-be murderer should hear as he drifted into the room with all the softness of a shadow. Hunched and cowled, he raised a stiletto in his left hand, its needle-like blade pointing downward, ready to strike the sleeping girl.
The multiple shifting shadows of the dagger cast by the encircling candles crept up the blood-red silk to close on Jarma’s chest like the hooked fingers of a massive claw. Still feigning repose, she shifted slightly and emitted a soft sigh. If Drinith didn’t strike now, it would be the last sound her friend ever made. Tightening her damp grip on her knife, she plunged forward.
Alerted by her soft intake of breath, the assassin swerved around. His knife flicked upward as he swallowed the gap between them in a single precise leap. He stabbed twice with the whole force of his body where her torso should have been, but she had already swerved clear. He swept the blade after her, but she had stepped inside its arc and clamped her arm over his elbow. She had no time to savor the chagrin, briefly betrayed by the candlelight, on his blue-black face. His second dagger flicked out at her from beneath his arm like a striking snake, but she was ready for it. He yowled as she drove her knife through his hand, impaling it into his forearm, forcing him to drop his weapon. Her blade had penetrated deeper than she had intended; she had only meant to cripple his hand. She yanked her knife free and drove it at his neck, chasing the moment of victory Quiescat had foreseen. The assassin slapped at her with his wounded hand. He twisted clear and jammed his knee into her stomach. Winded, she lost hold of his arm, but she fastened onto it again before it could slip free. Bright pain jabbed her side. Ignoring his bloody slaps, she stabbed his arm three times, cracking bone, snapping the tip of her blade. She threw herself upon him with a violent roar. Her dagger made a loud crunch as it rammed into his chest. As he flopped back, the blade pulled her forward and she toppled with him. The floor slammed her blade deeper, sinking it all the way to the hilt. She rolled off him as Jarma dropped her axe on him. Blood spurted from the assassin’s neck as his severed head rolled across the floor. It came to a stop at an awkward angle, eyes gazing up at Drinith in bewilderment until the last vestige of life drained away. Warm blood greased Drinith’s tunic. She assumed it was all her assailant’s until a sharp pain in her side reminded her otherwise.
Continue to CHAPTER 3.
Fatal Shadow is available for pre-order on Amazon.
Seven assassins, foiled by the watchfulness of the princess’s retinue, had previously failed to kill Drinith of Kaplar. Now, somewhere in the palace of her host, the Aether Emperor, an eighth crept unchecked toward her bedchamber. In a premonition, Quiescat had seen the man flitting between shadows in dimly lit corridors as he moved inexorably nearer her door, his bland, blue-black countenance rigid with concentration, the blade of his dagger as black and cruel as his purpose. Quiescat had already witnessed every blow of the impending struggle. He had seen her standing blood-spattered over the corpse of her would-be killer. But the vision gave Quiescat little comfort. The child he had raised from a baby was about to face a consummate killer in single combat, and the exiled Oracle of Godsdoor could do nothing but wait and pray his prescience proved true.
Slouched in his seat, wringing his sweaty hands, he stared at the dragon amber tiles covering the bedroom floor. He was only vaguely aware of the Crevast, the void between worlds, howling for his attention beyond the long windows. The aging warrior, Gelasin, couldn’t be ignored so easily. Quiescat kept glancing up at that tense knot of bone and sinew wrapped in drum-tight green-black skin and battered armor. His lean mouth always verged on an insolent smile, owing to the rugged, matte black scars in his cheeks where his honor tattoos should have been. Leaning against the wall, his arms folded, he appeared to be the very embodiment of smug indifference.
“How can you stay so damnably calm?” Quiescat whispered. “Our princess’s life is in danger.”
Gelasin arched an amused eyebrow. “I have faith in you,” he said with a whiff of sarcasm. “And I’ve faith in her. She must prove to her prospective subjects and allies that her right to rule extends beyond an accident of birth. Thanks to you, she’s ready for the assassin’s every move. She faces more of a dance than a battle.”
Quiescat snorted. “Don’t thank me. I never should have agreed to this escapade.”
Gelasin’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not questioning your vision, are you?”
“No.” Quiescat massaged the aching stiffness in the back of his neck. He knew his prevision was true.
Unfolding his arms, Gelasin straightened. “Are you certain she’s safe this time? The sequence of moves I worked out with her is specific to the attack you described, down to the wielding hand that the assassin favors. She’s not wearing her mail shirt precisely because, according to your vision, it was an unnecessary burden. If you’re wrong…” He gripped the hilt of his sheathed dagger and stared at the door. His whole body compressed as if ready to pounce toward it.
The sudden tension in his demeanor tempted a smile from Quiescat. The renegade, having so often pooh-poohed his misgivings in the past, now turned to him for reassurance. “She will win. The vision is certain.”
Relaxing, Gelasin folded his arms and rested back against the wall, but he kept glancing at the door. “It wasn’t just symbolic or something?”
“It wasn’t allegorical,” Quiescat said wearily. He missed the ambiguity of cryptic dreams, but such things were the poetry of youth. His prophetic glimpses had turned prosaic long ago. Since Godsdoor’s fall, his visions had become limited to fixed points nailed into a dark and uncertain future. After tonight, only one would remain: the moment of his death. It, too, drew close. He had replayed it so many times, it no longer inspired fear, but only a gnawing sense of loss and failure. He could see nothing beyond it. It might be a blessing. Never mind the recovery of her throne; the odds were stacked against Drinith’s very survival, and he didn’t want to contemplate her death.
Could his prophetic insight fail? Could she die tonight? Prescience was a fickle gift, prone to misinterpretation. No, he couldn’t be mistaken. She still lived in his final vision. Unless her presence was an illusion, a trick of some kind, the sort Fate loved to play.
Gelasin pursed his lips. “She’s not alone. Jarma’s in there with her. Between the two of them… You saw Drinith kill him.”
Quiescat winced, nodded.
“I slew my first man when I was fourteen,” Gelasin said. “Drinith’s almost nineteen.”
Quiescat shook his head in disgust. “I’m nearly fifty and I’ve never killed anyone.” That is, not in hand-to-hand combat. Quiescat had caused far more deaths than the warrior ever had or would. His prognostications had divided families, started wars, pitted kingdoms and empires against each other. Yes, his words had possessed the power to kill until the tyrant Magian the Infinite had driven him from his temple.
Gelasin gestured with his forefinger and thumb at the pits in his cheeks. He smiled. In the dull light, they became two jagged black holes in his face. “You didn’t get what once adorned these cheeks until you had killed in the service of the Emperor of Kaplar.”
When Quiescat first encountered Gelasin, the warrior had scorned that same emperor. He had deigned to join Drinith’s retinue only because his detestation of Magian eclipsed even his hatred of her father, Hemrath. The subsequent years as her protector had inspired a change of heart, a nostalgia for the life he had forsaken, and a fierce loyalty to the heir of his former liege. It made his reckless urgency to thrust her in harm’s way even more infuriating.
The fault didn’t lie with Gelasin. He acted according to his nature. Quiescat could have stopped this. He should have. He still could.
“I weary of this,” he declared, slapping his hands on the armrests.
A sudden clamor from the neighboring bedchamber transfixed him mid-rise. His fingers dug into the padded leather, but he remained frozen in a pained hunch, terrified that anything he did, no matter how slight, might sabotage his vision as his princess fought for her life.
Fatal Shadow is available for pre-order on Amazon.
Read Chapter 2 HERE.
I got my edits from my editor for Fatal Shadow. It’s a slow and painful process working through them. Even though the draft was quite clean (I had already put it through Prowritingaid and Grammarly) it came back with quite a few edits! I must say my editor did a fantastic job. I did a quick sweep through them to eliminate all the no-brainers and now I’m going through the remainder, chapter by chapter, page by page, line by line, word by word. It’s a painfully slow process, because there’s no next draft (aside from a final typo hunt) so everything has to be just right.
For example, I spent a full hour looking at medieval shoes last night to stick a little extra detail in one sentence. I also did some research on weave types on early upholstery. To be honest, I prefer to firm such detail when I know it will be in the book rather than plough a load of time into research that ends up getting cut.
Not all the edits need research, but they all require thought. They need to be carefully balanced and massaged so they fit seamlessly into the story.
However, there are no insurmountable issues so I should have the final edit finished by Christmas. This is certainly the best book I’ve written so far. I can’t wait to publish it.