When a clock has two faces

 

Motionless seas. A two-faces clock. Lykan sees all.

 The Dark Ages reigns on a world separated from Time, where men prefer war and women are lesser. Writing is outlawed and city gates close against the night, for the legend of the Wer is frighteningly real.

 King Androdin sends his son Cadmus north to meet with his northern rival, Drakan of Caladin, and with him is Aris Delmann, leader of the army. Their journey takes an unexpected turn when they discover not only an enclave of women, but also powerful men from another world, among them Torrullin Valla and Elianas Danae.

 Meanwhile, in the south, traitors have summoned an army from a distant land, and soon the first city falls to their might.

 When the mages begin their own game of manipulation, using the two-faces clock, Lykandir becomes explosive. It needs but a spark and all hope will be lost.

 How dare they? Now is the time to stand together, is it not? Lykandir is about to suffer an overdue shake around and no one will escape it.

Lykan sees all.

LYKANDIR

Lykandir: Ghost Ships (excerpt)

 

THEY FLEW, by pre-arrangement, northeast at first and negotiated the small strait created by the proximity of the mainland to the island at it northernmost point, maintaining lift that was a low profile but high enough to not cause ripples on the water.

Swinging thereafter directly to the east, the ship captains maintained a trajectory that kept the spit of land in sight, clambering upward for a bird’s eye view, and saw the small stone building nestled into the rise. The barracks appeared unattended; not even a trail of smoke wafted into the early morning air.

Shifting south, the invisible vessels tracked the land’s line and, based on the map Kilian drew for them, headed for the jutting spur that was the most eastern point of all Lykandir. There was, as the mage had revealed, a generally level, if rock strewn, area hidden from the rest of the isle by boulders that had folded into immovability an age ago. It was windswept and hostile, apparently, and no mage or soldier had built a cottage in the area. Yes, he had stated, it would prove as hostile for them, but he guaranteed no one would see them.

The Mage Keep itself was out of sight; situated to the west. It meant climbing far higher to view it and that, as Torrullin had murmured, was tempting the fates. Given how contrary the wind was this day, he was right in every way.

As the twenty-second minute commenced, the first ship touched down. It immediately reassumed solidity of sight, although no soldiers or sailors could be seen on board. A ghost ship. They were all as ghosts in this present. No outcry sounded. Kilian was right; no one kept even spurious presence here.

The rest of the fleet landed and rematerialized. That had as much to do with safe landing - they needed to see each other - as it had to do with the difficulty of maintaining a shield in gale-force conditions. The wind howled.

By touch, the soldiers soon formed up, many stumbling on the rocks, although their mates could not see them in their ignominy. Kilian could have told them that more rocks were now present, uncovered no doubt when the ocean heaved onto land in its initial restart, but as no one was permitted to speak, they remained ignorant of that fact. Again, by pre-arrangement, they immediately headed for the boulders and started climbing. Small sounds gave them away, but it was also a truth that the wind snatched those tell-tale noises away.

Hearts thundering, feeling as if the world had ended, they attained the higher ground on the other side, and there they squatted in terrible silence only the wind called a lie.

LYKANDIR: The Measured World

Chapters 1 & 10: ANCIENT TERRA

Ancient Terra's links, along with AI images to showcase each book.

EURUE Chapter 1

EURUE Chapter 10

FAROCHIN Chapter 1

FAROCHIN Chapter 10

LYKANDIR Chapter 1

LYKANDIR Chapter 10

AVAELYN Chapter 1

AVAELYN Chapter 10

AVIOR Chapter 1

AVIOR Chapter 10

Chapter 10: LYKANDIR: The Measured World

 

Motionless seas. A two-faces clock. Lykan sees all. 

The Dark Ages reigns on a world separated from Time, where men prefer war and women are lesser. Writing is outlawed and city gates close against the night, for the legend of the Wer is frighteningly real.

King Androdin sends his son Cadmus north to meet with his northern rival, Drakan of Caladin, and with him is Aris Delmann, leader of the army. Their journey takes an unexpected turn when they discover not only an enclave of women, but also powerful men from another world, among them Torrullin Valla and Elianas Danae. 

Meanwhile, in the south, traitors have summoned an army from a distant land, and soon the first city falls to their might. 

When the mages begin their own game of manipulation, using the two-faces clock, Lykandir becomes explosive. It needs but a spark and all hope will be lost. 

How dare they? Now is the time to stand together, is it not? Lykandir is about to suffer an overdue shake around and no one will escape it. 

Lykan sees all.

CHAPTER 10

 

For love of a friend, one walks into danger.

~ Ancient Oracles ~

 

Avaelyn

The Singing Chapel

THREE days after the wasp attack, Torrullin summoned his team to the Singing Chapel on the grounds of the Healer’s Facility. Built as a sacred site, the stone building communed with nature and accepted all worship, whether of the Mother or a tree, flower, or a star in the heavens. It did not matter; what mattered was serenity, and here there was a tranquillity to soothe the soul when a loved one lay on a bed in the hospital a few feet removed. The day he and Elianas consecrated the site, over a century ago, bright-winged birds flew into the giant tree the chapel reposed under and commenced a song of ethereal beauty. Thus, the Singing Chapel. Even now, a multitude of harmonies played out on the branches overhead.

Shep Lore, the architect and instigator for what he called the hospital, but Valleur thought of as the Healers, as well as being its administrator, and the foremost healer on Avaelyn, would not attend. Too many required his care at this point. None had yet recovered from the wasp sting. Sabian had denied the summons also, claiming he was engaged in determining both cause and solution to the foul result of the stinging.

Torrullin hoped he would find something, for those felled had been immune to his healer’s talent, and that had never happened before. This ‘illness’ was either so new or so ancient, there was no cure, one not even his remarkable abilities could delve for. Like to Titan’s Disease in the past, which had at least responded to his touch, this was a thing of sorcery, there was no longer doubt on that score. Had it been biological, every man, woman and child would now be leaving the hospital healed after being under his hands. Shep and Sabian would need to be caught up on the other world situation, but in the present, they were where they were most needed.

Elianas relaxed in long-legged calm in one of the window seats, his gaze turned outward. He seemed removed from the present. His long, dark hair lifted in the breeze - the doors were open on both sides - and his fingers lay spread on his thighs. For this, he had donned black - britches, boots - other than his tunic, a flowing white silk. He appeared, Torrullin mused, much like the pirates in old stories. All he needed was a cutlass.

“Where is your sword, Elianas?”

The man did not move, other than to say, “At home.”

He, Torrullin, had not strapped his on either. He could not remember the last time he had cause to wear it. In those first years after separation from Reaume, yes, for the potential for strife still existed then, but thereafter only to swipe at midges when he and Elianas raced along wild paths on their horses. Soon the day arrived when neither man bothered to reach for their blades. Both kept them oiled and sharp, however,

“Are you thinking we should keep our swords close again?” Elianas asked, his gaze still turned outward.

“Maybe.”

Dark hair swung as Elianas moved his head to rake him with an unreadable gaze. “You chose full black for this gathering. Making a statement or expecting trouble?”

The black had been his trademark apparel, as it had been for Elianas, but with time he had set aside what he regarded as both armour and war gear, and had chosen loose-fitting natural hues. In winter, certainly, he sometimes donned the black, but that had to do with staying warm, not much else. “Both,” Torrullin murmured.

“Why make a statement? We are not expecting strangers, Torrullin.”

“Says the man who almost did the same. Tell me why you chose that shirt.”

Elianas’ head swung back to the outward view. “Too hot for a woven tunic.”

“That’s your reason?”

“What else can it be?”

The itch of frustration over Elianas’ attitude revealed to him that they were in contrary mode both. In the past this led to extreme confrontation between them; were they headed in that direction again?

“Elianas, I don’t want to fight.”

“Too bad. Maybe I do.”

Now what the fuck did that mean? About to stride in to haul the man from the seat, Torrullin was forced to pause, for he heard Teroux’s voice on approach, talking to someone as he walked. “Saved by the bell,” he muttered.

A smile curved onto an amber cheek, but Elianas did not look his way.

Teroux, golden hair flowing over his shoulders, his tawny eyes bright, entered all smiles, his arms held wide. Grinning, Torrullin walked into the embrace, and both slapped each other’s backs before drawing apart. “Good to see you, Teroux. You look well. The ocean air definitely suits you.”

“Man, my new ship is fantastic! You and Elianas have to come for a sail … where is Elianas? Oh, there you are!” Grinning, Teroux moved in Elianas’ direction, who swung his legs to the floor and stood. The two clasped arms in ritual greeting.

“We’d love to sail,” Elianas smiled.

“Just say when,” Teroux grinned.

In the time before, Elianas and Teroux had issues and barely tolerated each other. They were not best friends today, but after a century of sun, sea, and his own company, Teroux had grown up and no longer sought to hold on to the past. His greeting and smile, therefore, was sincere, and Elianas responded to it, although only Torrullin understood the dark man still had reservations. He would probably never entirely trust Teroux.

“Who were you talking to?” Torrullin asked.

“Quilla. Now where has he got to?” Teroux moved to a bench and sat, crossing his legs.

“Here, here,” Quilla of the Q’lin’la chirped as he entered. A tiny being with feathered crown and wings, the birdman was Torrullin’s most trusted friend. His cherubic cheeks bulged as he smiled greeting, “Such lovely harmonies, had me entranced. Torrullin, I have missed you. And you, Elianas. Teroux at least has been to the Lifesource; I hope you two will pay a visit soon.”

The Lifesource Cathedral was the sacred site on Avaelyn. Erected between two mighty peaks with a gigantic waterfall to one side, it gave homage to the lifegiving waters of their world, and in return offered healing of the mind to all who entered the ethereal chambers within chambers. Many visited simply to listen to the magic of the music surrounding them as they wandered through. Although a Valleur site, it was also Quilla’s home, and was the only access to the Q’in’la moonlit homeworld.

“Soon,” Elianas echoed. “Hello, Quilla. It is good to see you.”

Tiny hands clasped together. “Likewise. We are too scattered in the present.”

“Peace does that,” Torrullin grinned.

Bright blue orbs speared him. “Meaning peace is about to be disrupted, given we are gathering? Oh, I hope not.”

“I agree,” Teroux said. “Those wasps? Is that what this is about?”

“They appear to be a symptom of a larger problem. I will explain when Tarlinn joins us,” Torrullin responded.

“Will he join us?”

Torrullin shrugged at his grandson. There was no way of knowing, was there?

Quilla meanwhile moved to stand before Elianas, his feathered head thrown back to look up at the man. “You are disturbed.”

“The news is not the best.”

“No, Elianas,” Quilla murmured, and reached up to lay a tiny hand over the dark man’s heart. “I mean in here.”

Placing a hand over the tiny one, thereby engulfing it, Elianas said, “Perhaps I will come to the Lifesource, for clarity.”

“Good.” Swinging away, the birdman next came to rest before Torrullin. “The black, my friend?”

Peripherally tracking Elianas’ suddenly uncoordinated movements, Torrullin muttered, “You need to take this seriously.”

“That bad.”

“Potentially, yes.”

“Oh dear,” Quilla sighed, and moved to perch beside Teroux.

As Elianas returned to the window seat, sitting with his legs hanging over the edge to face the interior, a new shadow darkened the entrance.

Tarlinn had arrived.

 

HE PAUSED in the doorway to study those already present.

Torrullin Valla. The man of many titles. Elixir. Walker of Realms. Shadow Wings. Lorinin. Ancient. Eternal Companion. Timekeeper. And Vallorin, the one that counted most for him, Tarlinn. The Valleur who was both Valla and Danae, a true immortal. That list of titles was what led to Torrullin choosing to bow out from Reaume, and who could blame him?

Elianas Danae. Torrullin’s equal in power, his list of titles as impressive. Alhazen. Shadow Wings. Ancient. Eternal Companion. Timekeeper. The Danae. The Vallorin without a throne. How he wished Elianas had taken that seat. A Danae with Valla blood also, truly immortal.

He knew these two men from the inside out. He was and ever would remain the sentient part of the Valleur Throne, but having chosen to accompany The Valla and The Danae into their portal existence, he now walked on two legs like to any other. The Throne itself, back in Reaume, was autonomous, and yet, if he wished to, he could simply return to inhabit the seat as he had for eons upon eons, through cycle after cycle. He no longer wished to, but his choice did not detract from his powers at all. As in the past, when Torrullin, first and forever Vallorin of the Valleur in his opinion, sat on his Throne, and knowledge flowed between them, thus it was now. Elianas had hidden as essence within the golden seat for a lengthy period, believing himself alone, waiting, and Tarlinn the sentience had left him to that belief, for it was how the man coped with the long wait. Indeed, yes, he knew these men from the inside out.

A century had gone by as a man. Often, he needed to vanish to cope with that, for a century when compared to the eternity elapsed? It played with his mind. Sometimes he questioned his choice academically, and at other times he screamed his elation at the spaces … and did not need witnesses for that.

Tarlinn’s attention shifted to the only other Valla on Avaelyn - Teroux. The young man - no longer that young at over a century - had finally lived up to his potential. Teroux Valla had a rough time growing up. As a man who preferred men, he hid his secret, and it bowed his soul. He wed the lovely Rose and betrayed her for Elianas, which that man utterly denied him. Time had moved on and there was peace between them, and Teroux had blossomed to become his own man, while Elianas remained contained when in his presence.

And Quilla of the Q’lin’la. A true friend to Torrullin, his only confidante. How blessed Avaelyn was that this tiny birdman had chosen to turn his back on Reaume. He said it was because his time had expired there, but Tarlinn knew the real reason was his love for Torrullin.

Glorious men, and here he was, unremarkable, average … generic. A face overlooked in a crowd. Features soon forgotten, his choice. And yet his power, while different, was on par with both Torrullin and Elianas. They were waiting for him to speak. “Greetings,” was all he said, and moved forward to clasp arms with all except Quilla, who grinned impishly his way.

“Six years this time, Tarlinn,” Torrullin pointed out. “What were you up to? No one saw you.”

“Here, there. High, low. This is an ancient world and keeps secrets. I wanted to know.”

“And what did you discover?”

“I now know how Avaelyn will return to Reaume.”

Utter silence greeted that statement, and Tarlinn watched the reactions with curiosity. Torrullin inhaled, and closed his eyes, and that, he understood, was all about relief. Thus, Torrullin already knew they would return, and he realised the way had been found. Elianas remained expressionless, other than incrementally shifting his gaze to evaluate Torrullin’s reaction. Thus, the Danae knew as well, and now wondered how soon Torrullin would agitate for that return. Quilla’s mouth rounded and Teroux paled to ghostly white.

“Return? I don’t want to go back,” Teroux whispered.

“Tactless, Tarlinn,” Torrullin snarled.

“No, my brother. This is knowledge we may need soon. If we cannot prevent the seas boiling away, escape from this realm will be the only answer.”

“Fuck,” Elianas groaned.

“What the hell does he mean?” Teroux demanded of Torrullin. “Boiling seas?” No doubt Teroux’s first thought was for his fleet of ships. “What bloody boiling seas?”

Threading both hands through his shoulder length hair, Torrullin said, “You are therefore aware of the situation.”

Tarlinn nodded. “I am.”

“You came to tell us about this dubious escape hatch.”

“I did.”

Torrullin grinned mirthlessly. “Hasn’t that just put a cathron among the falcons?” Inhaling, he faced Quilla and Teroux. “Listen now, here’s what’s happening …”

 

Healer’s Facility

MANY lay in delirium upon beds in the hospital and Shep Lore moved amongst them, hoping to at least make them as comfortable and pain free as was possible. Friends and family of his patients hovered, waiting for the healer to give his prognosis. He had nothing to offer them, and prayed that Sabian would find an answer. Torrullin’s healing attempts had had no waken and heal effect, although it did delay what other healers were saying was inevitability. They lost three men before Torrullin arrived that first day. This was day four, and none had yet recovered naturally.

Of the swarm there had been no further sign, but reports of sightings of small groups had filtered in from every region. No further attacks had yet occurred and for that Shep was beyond thankful.

One man kept drawing his gaze and he was unsure whether the man was human or Valleur; his dark hair spoke of being human while his attitude screamed Valleur. He hovered over a golden-haired Valleur writhing and moaning, whispering to him, no doubt hoping his words of support would aid the poor man. The hovering one reminded Shep so much of Taranis Agripson, the Guardian of yesteryear, that he could not help but glance over repeatedly, certain his eyes were deceiving him. The man was nervous, and that nervousness went beyond what he felt for his friend in delirium. He continually looked to the ward entrance as if expecting someone to enter, a someone he did not particularly wish to see, or was wary of encountering, but because he cared for the ill man, he took the risk. Gut instinct told Shep that, by all gods, this day would bring utter change.

Sabian entered then, and Shep noticed how the watching dark-haired man almost deflated in his relief. Shep and Sabian had over the last century become best friends, often working together, one being practical, the other a researcher. They made things happen, much to Torrullin’s continued amusement.

“Shep?” Sabian queried. “Have a moment?”

The rotund, purple-clad form saw something in Sabian’s expression, for he nodded and followed the man out. Neither noticed that the dark-haired one trailed after them.

The two halted in an alcove and engaged in whispered conversation. “I can now confirm each of those creatures was, in some form, a wasp, but not of the natural order,” Sabian murmured.

“What are you inferring?” Shep demanded. “My patients need me; get to the point.”

“Sorcery, Shep,” Sabian snapped. “What else is there? Someone has infiltrated Avaelyn, someone with bad intentions.”

“Who?”

Sabian threw his hands up. “I don’t know, idiot.”

“What can be done to stop this? I don’t care how or why right now; I need an answer!”

“Hush, will you?” Sabian inhaled and lowered his own voice. “According to the Lore Book, there is only one countering that will work. The heated tip of a special sword must be placed upon the brow of the man stung, and he will then recover.”

Shep nodded vigorously. “Well, good. Where’s the sword?”

Sabian stared at him. “I have no idea, or even if it exists.”

Paling, Shep whispered, “The great words have names. Is it not Trezond or Kilathen?”

“Neither Torrullin nor Elianas’ swords have sway in this, unfortunately. This one is named Iniralin.”

“Never heard of it.”

Sabian swore under his breath, and asked, “No race memory?”

Shep Lore shook his head.

“Then we’re screwed, my friend.”

The dark-haired man moved into their field of view, drawing their attention. Shep frowned at him, but Sabian gasped, and it was such a shocked and enlightened sound, it caused Shep to jerk. “What now?” he demanded of Sabian, ignoring the man who now had a hand on the hilt of his sword. A trembling hand, Shep noticed. The incongruity worried him, but so did Sabian’s shock.

Sabian lifted a shaking hand to point. “Him.”

“What about him? He has a friend in the ward. He reminds me of Taranis but …”

“More correctly, Shep, Taranis looked like this man,” Sabian stated, his voice strengthening. He inhaled, and then bowed low. “Well met, Karydor Danae.”

“Ohhh,” Shep breathed out. Shivers raced over his skin, puckering every inch with goosebumps.

The man closed his eyes, and nodded. “You have me there, Master Historian, and I have the sword known as Iniralin. Named for hope and optimism, and future.”

Sabian blinked.

Grey eyes crinkled with something approaching amusement when they reopened. Torrullin’s eyes. “Yes, I am well aware of what this means. Not only do I appear to carry the blade that will save lives, if you have the right of it, but this day I meet my son.”

“Ohhh,” Shep repeated in a hoarse voice.

Indeed.

 

LYKANDIR

Chapter 1: LYKANDIR: The Measured World

Motionless seas. A two-faces clock. Lykan sees all.

The Dark Ages reigns on a world separated from Time, where men prefer war and women are lesser. Writing is outlawed and city gates close against the night, for the legend of the Wer is frighteningly real.

 King Androdin sends his son Cadmus north to meet with his northern rival, Drakan of Caladin, and with him is Aris Delmann, leader of the army. Their journey takes an unexpected turn when they discover not only an enclave of women, but also powerful men from another world, among them Torrullin Valla and Elianas Danae.

Meanwhile, in the south, traitors have summoned an army from a distant land, and soon the first city falls to their might.

When the mages begin their own game of manipulation, using the two-faces clock, Lykandir becomes explosive. It needs but a spark and all hope will be lost.

How dare they? Now is the time to stand together, is it not? Lykandir is about to suffer an overdue shake around and no one will escape it.

Lykan sees all.

 

  

DAY ONE

 

CHAPTER 1

Do not be deluded by the beauty of nature surrounding you, soldier. Much lies in wait behind a shrub overrun in blooms.

~ Sergeant’s Speech ~

  

City of Globeni

Month of Harvenis – The Shifting Season

14^th hour / 45^th minute

HISTORIANS would tell that it - change in all its complications - began when a man entered the city of Globeni on his warhorse, and yet one must hark to the fact that his travel to a place of meeting was the culmination of factors, therefore of time passed. Thus, it began, if one was truly dispassionate, a long time before, but let the historians tell the tale their way …

The man on his warhorse approached the city of Globeni with some misgiving. It had been a while since Aris had set foot in the city nearest his home, and he wondered how much had changed in the interim.

Born to an unknown woman in the household of the forester clan Delmann, he spent his childhood fighting imaginary battles with trees, a wooden sword his weapon. His father swiftly understood this son would not follow in his footsteps - he had six others to do so - and alerted the local guardsmen. At age twelve Aris left the forest for the local city - Globeni - and the sands of a training ground. That was the last time he saw his father and his brothers.

At age sixteen he fought in his first war, a son defending his father’s rights to the forest from the rival Cormsin clan, although he did not meet his family on the battlefield that day or any other. His father was a forester, not a soldier, but Aris knew two of his brothers had fought. One did not survive.

This war was enacted more than once, honing raw talent into a formidable warrior. Aris discovered he loved the blood of battle, the sound of metal ringing, the power of a warhorse between his thighs, and the freedom of travel. He had seen much of Lykandir south of the Wall that divided the northern kingdom from its larger neighbour.

This day, this journey, his king had commanded, and it had naught to do with impending battle. Aris was to meet with a forester from the Cormsin, for apparently the man possessed first-hand knowledge of events moving to the north. Of course, one had to admit that battles were not always fought with iron and steel.

It did not sit right. Firstly, any dealings with a Cormsin felt akin to betrayal, even though a soldier was regarded as neutral, going where the king decided his troops were most needed. The wars between Cormsin and Delmann of yesteryear, when he as a younger soldier fought on the side of what he believed was right, had been for territory the king required, land the Cormsin owned. It could well have been the other way and he might have been commanded to dispossess his own family, while having to remain ‘neutral’. Secondly, anything that carried the stench of the north was to be avoided. No good had ever come from the land of savages beyond the Wall.

Why now? Aris thought as he nudged his mount under the arch of entry into Globeni proper. King Androdin considered Drakan of the north his mortal enemy; what was that imperative to result in this coming meet?

He would soon discover the why of it.

His horse’s hoofs clattered on the stone underfoot as they ambled together to the stables maintained next to the training sands and the barracks. He glanced around in some curiosity, seeing the same stone frontage and fading signs as in days passed. Globeni had not changed, other than to appear a little timeworn. Despite being near the ocean, dense forest lay between the city and the cliffs overlooking the Dungaler Islands, and few thus regarded it as a coastal settlement, although a tang to the air said otherwise. Aris sniffed and, yes, there it was, the faint smell of salt overlaying the decay from the old trees.

The city folk, he noticed as he ambled onward, seemed far surlier than he remembered, and less well-fed. Androdin’s taxes, he knew, were steep. An army had to eat, and needed to be outfitted frequently. No wonder the looks cast his way were not friendly. It paid to be a soldier, but the common man laboured to feed that soldier.

Soon the stables were in sight, and Aris swung from his horse, handing him over to a lad sporting a mop of brown hair.

“Take good care of Vulcan, hear? There’s extra in it for you.”

The lad grinned and nodded vigorously. “Aye!”

“Go with the boy, Vulcan,” Aris murmured after rubbing between his charger’s ears. “Take some rest now.”

Obediently the warhorse acceded to the gentle tug from the lad, and vanished into the gloom of the yard.

Aris headed in the opposite direction, eschewing making his presence known at the barracks. As ever, those would be filled with both new cadets and old hands, and he had no desire to view either. Removing his understated boiled leather helmet, he scrubbed at his cropped fair hair, grimacing at the sweat he encountered. He sought the tavern where he was to meet the Cormsin, hoping for a meal and a drink before the appointed time arrived. He hoped also, once that duty was done with, for the opportunity to bathe.

  

City of Rodair - Capital City

14^th hour / 47^th minute

THE INTERMITTENT sunshine created sparks of light upon the water, arcs of glitter as wavelets rippled. This day the breeze drove the usual tranquillity into forerunners to frenzy; it needed but a degree or three more, and ripples would become waves to send fishermen to harbour.

Standing at the very edge of the royal pier where it jutted into Lake Rushin, the sails of the royal barge snapping somewhat to his left, Prince Cadmus watched the dancing on the crests. In the distance, two boats gradually tacked towards the wharves that reposed slightly northwest of the city. The wind would thus strengthen, he understood; one could ever tell the temperament of the lake merely by tracking the movements of men well-accustomed to conditions. They were definitely scurrying to harbour; a tempest might be in the offing. Neither here nor there at this moment - the magical skittering of light had captured his attention.

One did not navigate the seas of Lykandir, but the lakes were suited to sailing, fishing, swimming and more. Here the waters moved. The great bodies of water surrounding Lykandir remained ever motionless, no matter the wind, no matter the rain, a state to frighten even the bravest of souls, for it was without doubt unnatural, a scientific impossibility. Given the moon in the heavens and the rotation of their world - measurable by noting the stars revolve in the night sky - tides, at the very least, had to be the logical result one relied upon. There were no tides, however, at least not in the accepted sense. Many whispered of fell sorcery, although none were able to give a reason for such necessity. The inland ‘seas’ possessed no tidal action either, but at least the waters moved. And thus created glitter for an enchanted prince to lose himself in.

A pair of colourful geese swimming unhurriedly between the currently gentle troughs created by the breeze, with a row of goslings in rapid pursuit, the sun highlighting their iridescent plumage, caught his attention next. Father and mother, together, caring for their young.

A tear tracked over Cadmus’ cheek. How he wished to be one of those goslings, to know true care. Women had no place on Lykandir, and yet nature belied that notion. The mother cared for the young while the father brought food, and then the day came for an outing such as the one he now viewed, and both mother and father undertook the task of teaching their offspring.

Something, he knew in his soul, was truly awry with the social system all men accepted as norm in the place of his birth. He suspected, if boys grew up under the care of a mother and had girls growing alongside them, under the same care, the men of their patriarchal society would not be as warlike as they were now. Perhaps men would not be as angry about … everything.

Cadmus watched the small family vanish into distance, and inhaled a breath. I shall change it, he swore in silence. All women will have the status they deserve.

He suspected, although the thought was unformed, that women were more powerful than men in many ways, and men knew it and thus denied them a long time ago. A different kind of sorcery, but as impactful as motionless seas.

 

Globeni

Halvetin’s Tavern

15^th hour

THE SMELL from the smoky hearth revealed ash, elm, hard pine, and aged orange tree logs burning away to nothing. Aris was a soldier, true, but a forester never forgot.

Being not long after mid-morning, the tavern had not yet filled. Excellent. The food would still be fresh, and there would be enough to settle the gnawing in his belly.

Two men sat a far table - griffers, by their apparel. They did enjoy prancing about in bright garb and starred cloaks. Aris ignored them; he did not wish to think of griffers on an empty stomach.

Lykandir was a hilly kingdom with some larger peaks, surrounded by ocean, a beautiful land with great trees, inland seas and plains of wildflowers and colourful heather. Majestic birds gave mournful cries in grey skies. Numerous small islands hugged the coastline, generally tribal, or clan, lands.

This is the world, the king proclaimed, both present day Androdin, and his fathers before him, but there were a host of tales about other lands, most notably rumours of a civilisation to the south. According to the rumour mongers - the subversives of society - a valiant crew and a sturdy vessel needed sail due south for ten days to attain a harbour overflowing with outlandish and exotic people, strange craft and peculiar things (nobody explained what those ‘things’ were). There was not a word for ‘exotic’ in the Kandrian tongue and thus it evolved as a slang term created for the purpose of nuance. Griffers - scribes with the kind of magic that retarded indefinitely the decay of scrolls - called the rumours a lie. One had to believe them, for they were the mouthpiece of the king.

Aris snorted to himself, thinking about griffers despite his intentions. Ever had their presence led to such speculation, however, and thus he did not flay his inner self over it. His snort was for ‘the mouthpiece of the king’. He knew well how often Androdin cursed their very existence.

Few men became griffers, for few possessed the gift of magic and writing. Magical talent was extremely rare, and not so many possessed the skill of writing either. If a boy was seen by an elder scratching a shape in the sand, he was immediately marked and subsequently removed from his family for training; one had to believe the griffers - they knew. Did they not?

Ha.

Debatable.

A girl seen scratching a shape in the sand, by any man or boy, was put to death instantly. Women had therefore learned to hide such talents and in the present few were found with such abilities. It was said there was a chain of women and girls possessing both writing and magic, but one would have to be a woman to verify that rumour. Aris had no idea whether such was true. He had not spoken to a woman in years.

Ignoring the griffers and shifting his thoughts from the intrigue of lands to the south - he was here about a certain kingdom to the north - Aris beckoned a server closer.

The nondescript man shuffled nearer, his expression baleful, and then waited insolently, offering no greeting. Aris ignored his attitude; it was for his uniform, therefore his rank - Chevalye - and he did not need to explain himself to anyone. “Stew and a fresh loaf. A tankard of whatever’s on tap,” he ordered.

The man went away without responding.

Men, he mused, preferred the wild spaces and the clash of weapons - no doubt why the server felt inadequate - and left it to others to track the truth, and that was why griffers and clerics had so much leeway.

Forcing his thoughts to the present, ignoring the occasional flash of bright garb in his periphery, Aris waited for his meal. He had around an hour at his disposal before his mysterious contact showed up, and he would use it to eat well.

  

Twenty minutes later

15^th hour / 19^th minute

FOUR patrons had entered the smoky tavern in the last few minutes, and thus he ignored the door when it again creaked open to allow a newcomer within. When silence descended, however, Aris looked up.

By Lykan, Lord Cormsin himself had arrived for this meeting. Aris shoved his meal aside with regret, and inclined his head to the man, his hazel eyes revealing no expression.

Grinning ferally, Caleb Cormsin approached.

LYKANDIR