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HoT Prologue RAW

February 1, 2016

As you all know by now I have had to delay the release of Heroes or Thieves until the summer (intending June). But that can feel like a lifetime after that KoP ending, am I right?! So, I am offering you a RAW (that means that this is a DRAFT/UNEDITED/TOTALLY LIABLE TO CHANGE OR NOT EVEN BE IN THE BOOK) piece from Heroes or Thieves. I intend to include the next chapters with more updates :D

**BE WARNED. If you have NOT finished Kings or Pawns you should NOT read this. It is a SPOILER.**

Heroes or Thieves Prologue --RAW

      A fire of red and orange ignited the western sky where the sun had descended below the horizon. Her flames seemed to lick the darkness that followed in her wake, bathing the underbellies of the clouds that had rolled in from the north in a crimson glow. They were lighter now, their great weight of snow dropped on the mountain peaks of the far north—the continent’s first snowfall of the winter. They would carry on to the south, dropping what remained as heavy showers; and then, as they reached the edge of the Aenid Mountains on the edge of the Makataj desert, they would fade entirely.

      But in the Sel’varian Forest, the winter seemed a distant glimmer on the horizon; fall’s vibrant leaves still clung to the thick branches of the canopy while half a dozen blooms unfurled for the first time that year. And in the narrow drawing room where the two princes sat beneath the labyrinth of palace rooms, the air was as warm as a mid-summer day.

      Or rather, a mid-summer night. Hadoream batted his shirt against his breast thrice, trying to encourage a little breeze to grace his sticky chest. He eyed the single log contemptuously. It was generating such a stifling warm, and yet the towering walls of the room were dark, lit only by a stingy emittance of light.

      But this was the very mood his elder brother strived for—a place so unsettling in its own nature that Hadoream could not help but be drawn closer to quell his irrational qualms. Thick smoke… The dancing shadows… Even the palace musicians outside their very walls sounded hollow and weak, like muffled figures crying outside their windowless tomb.

      He shivered at the exaggeration. Yes, this place most certainly caused the soul to still.

      Hadoream slid closer toward his brother, eyes attentively wide, mouth half agape. The dying light of the fire just barely illuminated the elder’s face, his heroic features shifting from bravery to supremacy with each flickering shadow. “…They rushed down the bank’s hillsides like god-damn fools, each vying to seize their ‘invaluable little prize.’” Darcarus paused to let out a single laugh that almost shook the dust from the oversized paintings. “Of course, I was more than ready for them; I had already spoken the summoning for Aersophyla. You should have seen their god-damn faces when she rose up from the smoke and scorched the first three men.” He laughed again, but his sinister tone was dampened by amusement and the grin that had crept over his lips.

      In the firelight, the twisted smile tread rather close to a sneer.

      Just as Hadoream’s spine tingled with delighted fear, Darcarus’ voice suddenly fell into sharp complaint, breaking the rising action with utter disappointment. “But then Veacerel and his soldiers arrived and swept the victory right out from underneath. God-damn meddling bastards. Just like Sairel to take all the glory for himself. Prick.”

      Hadoream leaned back, too enwrapped in the glory of it all to rebuke his brother for his discredit of the fortunate aid Veacerel and his soldiers had lent. Or even to rebuke him for the jibe at dear Sairel, who was once more held to blame for Darcarus’ self-inflicted troubles.

      Darcarus raised one arm in a casual sweeping motion, conjuring further visons of bandits scattering to the earth—or perhaps, quite probably, Veacerel and his men. Yet Hadoream could not be entirely distracted by the animated display. He could see the crimson stain had seeped through the bandages at his brother’s right breast, and the movement only aggravated the injury. ‘Right… this victory was not as flawless as he touts,’ Hadoream reminded himself. “…Does it hurt?” he interrupted before Darcarus could sling further insults at their eldest brother and his captain.

      Darcarus reposed against the cabriole legs of the chair behind him, lounging with poised confidence—certainly not willing to let Hadoream sweep his glory away with reference to the wound. “Keh,” he scoffed. “Of course not.” He kicked his right leg out against the heavy fur of the rug, dropping it over his left, and Hadoream had to admit he still held exceptional regality, even as he bled and swore in a most ignoble fashion.

      Sel’ari forbid their father hear him speak like a human. But then, Darcarus would delight to once again be rebuked for defiance to their father… even if it was over a matter as simple as the colloquial use of the Common Tongue.

      Darcarus narrowed his eyes in warning. “Will you stop looking at me like that? I’ve received worse by sparring. By Sel’ari, if you start mothering me…!”

      Hadoream quickly wiped his face of concern. Even with Darcarus’ confidence in full allure, he doubted his brother’s insouciant assertion. Yet the male seemed so entranced with his own success that Hadoream supposed a little appreciation for his valiant effort was deserved.

      “But what is Aersadore falling to?!” Hadoream began, focusing his frustrations elsewhere. While his rebellious brother had managed to live to see another day, his concerns were not eased knowing the vulnerability of the rest of Ryekarayn—very few could summon corporeal beasts to their defense like Darcarus, or have the royal guard swift on their tails to defend them! “I still find it difficult to fathom that bandits even dared to lay hands on you… Imagine the state of the rest of the peoples! There could be no doubt of your royalty!”

      “You would think the crown self-evident,” Darcarus mused, a faint smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.

      Hadoream was not rallied to shared amusement. Here his brother bled after a close scrape with death and he had the audacity to belittle the event. “This is not amusing!” he snapped. “Bandits are infesting Ryekarayn right now and daring to put even royals to the sword. Where in Emal’drathar did they all come from? In just a few weeks their numbers have gone from dismissive to nearly tantamount to war.”

      Darcarus gave a single snort. “It’s Sairel and Father—saving Aersadore with their ‘superior ideals.’”

      Hadoream let out a cry of frustration. “Can you acknowledge the gravity of this situation for even a moment without jibing at them?!”

      Darcarus seemed to finally realize that his little brother had grown quite past infatuation with his story. His body immediately tensed, ears finally focused on the content of Hadoream’s words.

      “Despite Father’s best attempts to shield me,” Hadoream began loudly, his frustrations still raw, “I have heard that a number of human lords are rising up to take advantage of the king’s flailing power. Aersadore is falling apart and your injury is proof of this! How long until we are forced to intervene in order to save Ryekarayn from the same internal conflict our homeland endures?!”

      Darcarus’ smile remained, but it did not extend to the piercing eyes above it. The musing tone had truly vanished. “Don’t concern yourself so. If Father sends anyone to scrape up human shit, it’ll be me. You can sleep well knowing I will be the first one sent into the fray of battle. And even if I die and fail, he will still consider it a victory.”

      Hadoream’s chest tightened. There was a jab, but this time Darcarus’ tone was calm and grave, hiding venom and pain behind the mask. “You shouldn’t say such things. Father does not favor me and Sairel over—” But when the smile vanished as well, Hadoream stopped his futile attempts for his father’s defense. He swiftly changed course. “Father doesn’t listen to me either, Darcarus—that is why he’s tried to hide such things from me—knowing I would demand intervention. There are murderers and pillagers reaping the good from this land and I cannot turn a blind eye to it. We all must intervene! I too am tired of watching Sevrigel fall to ruin—and now we must sit and watch Ryekarayn fall as well!” He dropped his fist down against his thigh in rising fury. “Sel’ari so help me, I will not stand idly by any longer!”

      The fire hissed in sudden agreement, flaring with a wave of light as Darcarus snapped forward, long blond hair rushing over his blood-stained shoulder. With that gesture, Hadoream’s mounting determination was severed.

      “You’re right,” came his brother’s whisper across their narrow expanse; but his mouth had not seemed to move. His blue eyes were wild again, dancing in the dim light with sudden hints of taunting secrecy. He held Hadoream’s attention with a piercing gaze; he was in command once more. The music outside was a pounding rhythm of drums and even it seemed drowned beneath the beat of Hadoream’s own heart.

      “Every ‘event’ that our dear father has fed to you is a carefully woven lie. What if someone desires us to turn to the left so we cannot see what is to the right? See, my dear brother, there are two weaknesses to the new king’s power held on Sevrigel: either Sevrigel overthrows her ruler herself, or Ryekarayn bails the cowards out. But what can we do with dangers knocking down our very doors? While Father thinks he has shunned Sevrigel’s problems, they have come here instead. The heart of everything lies within the details. Let me tell you what Father and Sairel will not…”

      And in a chilling mismatch of emotion, a quick and jovial tune swallowed the quiet whispers of that palace room and eloped with the cool breeze of the evening, winding its way across the bustling gardens beyond. Dancers swept across the smooth cobbled stones of the courtyard of the palace, twisting and turning in the fire burning around the garden’s fountain. The warm yellow light of the garden orbs seemed to bob along with the melody, stretching and shrinking in the shadows cast by the firelight.

      And looming above them, from the palace’s tallest tower, King Sairel unrolled a small scroll of parchment, his eyes scrutinizing the tiny scribbles scrawled wildly across the page. His lips pursed as he noted the dwarven seal embedded neatly at the bottom: the only legible mark on the page. He dropped it irritably to his left, licking his index finger to pull the next sheet of yellowed parchment from the stack.

       There was no time for gaiety and childish tunes. And yet, before he had the opportunity to scrutinize further legal contents, music drifted in from the courtyard below, determined to violate his quiet abode.

      “‘Dance!’ cried the prince.

      ‘I’ll dance!’ cried the tree,

      And it danced and it cried

      To the music’s melody.”

      Sairel squinted down irritably at the notice in his hands. It was only when he had nearly blocked the ruckus out that a song seemed to sweep all the more forcefully into the warm air of the vast office around him. And these words in the common tongue grated with particular pain across his ears.

      “A terrible terrible, terrible lie.

      As the mad king lives,

      His people die.”

      Sairel rubbed a hand against his eye where it had begun to twitch, sliding his chair back sharply. The fire before him sparked, cracking as it bit into the newest log, showering the fireplace with orange, mutually annoyed sparks. ‘They are going to give me an ulcer…’ Why ever the humans had made a nursery rhyme out of the slaughter of Sevrigel’s Faraven people across the sea, he couldn’t fathom. He moved to the door of his study, pushing it open a crack.

      “Is there something wrong, Your Majesty?” the guard before him asked, turning quickly at attention.

      “No,” Sairel waved a hand dismissively. “Just tell them to cease those dreadful human… songs, if that’s what they are.” He continued in a mutter, “Gods, I would hear just about anything if I do not have to hear that.”

      The guard hesitated. “Yes, Your Majesty. It’s the human’s Winter Festival in the capital. Veacerel took the servants out today to see it. It—”

      Sairel heaved a sigh, muttering below his breath. ‘Sometimes Veacerel panders to the servants as though he may one day end up as one… Which he’s going to do if I keep hearing this song!’ he thought sourly. “Never mind, let them carry on. Someone should at least enjoy themselves while I am working.” He closed the door before the guard’s opening mouth, stepping briskly across the room to the doors of the balcony. He shut them with a quiet snap, relieved as the melody was reduced to a low hum outside the thick glass.

      The mahogany chair creaked as he settled back into it, sliding the latest parchment to his left. He pulled the next one off his stack, scanning it briefly and flourishing his name across the bottom. He pressed the seal of a phoenix into the corner and waved the parchment briefly in the air to dry. Then he dropped it to his left. It was a brief glimpse of progress.

      There was a sudden knock from the doors to the room and Sairel pursed his lips, throwing a hand into the air. He had just hushed the external ruckus and now the internal din was ready to be employed. “Can I not work?” he called irritably.

      “I’m sorry, Your Majesty.” The door opened and closed swiftly to admit a man dressed in dark greens and browns, a silver pin of office fastened to his breast. He was holding a small, cream-colored parchment. “I’m afraid you will want to read this…”

      Sairel glanced sidelong at the teetering papers on his right and the mound growing on his left. “If I had a gold coin every time someone said that to me, I would be richer than all the dwarves of Ryekarayn. Combined.” He waved a hand, beckoning his advisor forward. “Hand it over, Veacerel.”

      Veacerel strode staunchly across the room and set the letter down before him, pressing his finger onto the unmarked and broken seal. “I whisked it away before your father could read it… but I’m afraid Darcarus got to it first. It’s from Sellemar.”

      Sairel picked up the parchment immediately, flipping open the unsealed paper. The parchment was sweeter than Ryekarayn’s, taken from the Maisprings along Sevrigel’s coast. He could still catch the faint scent of the sea rising from beneath the thin, scratched ink.

      Sairel’s heart tightened; the script lacked the usual elegance of the writer; instead it was swift and jagged, with ink bleeding heavily into the adjacent letters.

      Hairem is dead. General Taemrin and his army have been annihilated. Saebellus has already taken the capital and he marches on his brothers at this hour. Ilsevel says “the reign of kings has returned.” But what she intends to do is far from our True Blood cause.

      All of Sevrigel has come to war.

      Sairel’s annoyance faded. His lips hardened into a thin line, his eyes rereading the five short sentences. The words of the song below seemed all the more relevant, their clashing melody almost chilling. “When did this arrive?”

      “Just moments ago,” Veacerel replied stiffly. “Tilarus personally delivered it.”

      Sairel turned to his right, his eyes sweeping past the endless canopy of trees beyond, staring east into the darkness where a narrow channel separated Ryekarayn from Sevrigel. “Tell Darcarus his lips are sealed or I shall seal them myself.” He looked down, regarding the letter stoically, but beneath his impassive expression a sea of emotions roiled. It would have been days—possibly weeks—since the letter had been sent. Hairem dead… his army defeated. And here, Ryekarayn’s distractions that were gaining the grounds of war. His grip tightened on the parchment until his fingers grew white. Already the elven nation was bathed in blood.

                “I believe the struggles of Ryekarayn are now intertwined with our brethren’s fate. Sevrigel,” he spoke gravely, “is at war.”