The not-too-distant future…

  A miniscule splash sounded in the obscurity, her only companion besides the blades of hot pain. Her body lay broken, twisted, agony lanced through her ribs as she trembled to gasp. Sharp inhales brought tears to her eyes. The desire to cry out succumbed to the need for air. Only the silence kept her company, holding her close. Mortal life bled away, and the darkness stood as witness.

  Another tear ran down her face. Suffering enveloped her body, wrapping itself around like a constricting cocoon. The coldness made the misery … more.

  What am I doing here? Where am I? Despite the desperate thoughts, nothing returned. What is my name?

  Her mind stood like a blank canvas, without a hint of shade, shadow, or shape, and like a brook ran dry long ago, the memories had fled. Paralyzed on the stone floor gave her the sense of vulnerability. Helplessness. She’d been helpless many times before, of that she felt certain.

  The darkness devoured her like a ravenous animal but as mute as the voiceless, never revealing its secrets.

  Drip… The sound of a small splash echoed in the deep. The stone, the darkness and cold, the falling water, was she somewhere deep within the earth?

  Within the confines of her dark prison, a new hush crept over the air. Something stirred beyond the edge of her vision in the tenebrous gloom. Her spine tingled. A new predator stalked her, one she couldn’t escape. As the panic grew, her consciousness slipped beyond the precipice …

  C1: Norek

  Apor rose in a blue blister of fury, its heat lashed out against the tiny Forgotten Isles. Hot gusts of wind suffused with wisps of water tore through the beach, making their way to the heart of the small island. Thatched houses of reed and local wood called spear grass covered the lush carpet of green and tall weeds. Trees thick with vegetation twisted and twined, teeming with wildlife running untamed like a fire through a forest. The more jungle the Islanders tore down, the more it resisted; both combatants contested for unbridled dominance.

  Norek sat in the limited shade of his small hut. Salty sweat dripped from his tanned, naked flesh. Ocean water, dust, and humidity filled the air. He stayed on the coast, far from the interior where the monarch resided. Foreigners weren’t granted sanction to visit inland. Living near the docks, he could survey each incoming ship, some hailing from the Golden City, a mere ten-day voyage away. Others ventured from the Eastern City, an arduous, three-week trip. Sometimes, the voyage took longer if the weather turned. Elysys, the next largest city beyond, doubled that distance. Unfortunately, some ships never reached port again. Even though the climate turned treacherous this time of year and hammered the eastern coast of Marcoalyn’s realm, most ships still dared the journey. If the elements didn’t get them, sometimes pirates did.

  The people of the Isles called Norek ‘a man of many talents.’ A cautious but prudent nature became a definitive reason he was chosen each morning as a hired hand. The peddlers and dock workers took note of him, and so did the jungle keepers and the farmers. A foreigner picked first was uncommon here.

  The wind rippled across the waves, and a fresh splash of ocean mist caught his face. The sound of footsteps crunching the white sand solicited a curious glance from Norek. Who would violate the period of rest? The two-hour span claimed the hottest part of the day where all Islanders returned to their homes to escape. By the sound of padded footfalls, a small group headed his way. The first broke his line of sight, and Norek knew him to be a herald of the king. As the custom dictated, he lurched to his feet before taking a knee. When the herald visited, he did so by order of the monarch and merited the same respect, minus the bowed head.

  In the other cities south of the Melodic Mountains, where monarchs still ruled, heralds wore elaborate robes of silk with emblems of their Houses and jewelry to display their power, wealth, and status. Their soldiers wore plate and chain mail. In the Isles, linen was the choice clothing for almost all residents, and the herald wore the colors of his lord—forest green.

  “You may rise,” the herald spoke. Like most Islanders, he had light hair and pale eyes. The indigenous had either blond hair or a light shade of red, and their irises ranged in color from gray, green, hazel, amber, and blue. Norek stood—his dark hair and matching goatee contrasted with the group around him.

  “How may I be of service to you, sire?” Norek asked, his eyes lowered.

  “Herald will do, I am not a sire yet, outsider.” Most foreigners considered the term rude, but the Islanders resisted external influence into their culture. They used the word as a constant reminder. “His Eminence requests your presence at once; however, you are unsuited to set foot within his castle dressed as a worker. We brought you a change of clothing. You will bathe before entering the king’s presence.”

  “As your king commands.”

  The group ushered him to the public bathhouse where the forest gave way to the beach. The water trickled downhill from the center of the island, near the castle. The bathhouse accommodated both hot and cold water; however, the herald hurried him through and only allotted the cold. The bath was a fresh reprieve from Apor’s sweltering heat but became uncomfortable after a few moments. Norek bathed in haste. Two women came to dry and clothe him when he exited, dressing him with a thin, almost sheer, white linen. Tying the vestments at his sides, the women draped a slightly heavier outer robe around him in the king’s color. The cloth, though cut short, was not meant to be fully closed. The ladies shod his feet with dyed leather matching his outer robe. When presentable, the girls covered him with powder and oils to obscure any residual stench. Norek grabbed the only two possessions allowed, refusing to part with them—his staff and his brown leather satchel.

  Exiting the bathhouse, a soldier was dispatched to tell his employer that Norek would not be returning. A travel-worn path guided them through the forest. Tall, thick grass claimed the edges of the road. Spear grass—a fibrous wood, strong and sturdy, but hollow at the center—claimed the forest in innumerable multitudes. The herald set a silent, moderate pace up the sloping trail. Several times, segments of the path became steep, but all reached the castle without incident. The castle itself rested on a small plateau on the highest point of the island. In comparison to what Norek had read about the Kothlere Castle in Ralloc, this wouldn’t compare to the courtyard. Considering the scarceness of available resources, the feat seemed rather impressive.

  A curtain wall, barely deserving the name, lacked fine masonry work. Massive boulders stood cobbled together with copious amounts of mortar, the strength of many men, and sheer willpower. Beyond, the gate proved no different. How they managed to even remotely level the wall, Norek had no clue. While the barrier boasted enormous stones, the interior relied on smaller rocks. The doors, surprisingly enough, were made of wood, no doubt shipped in from one of the coastal cities.

  The herald pushed the doors open, and a not-so-tremendous great hall greeted him. One hearth sat at the back of the room.

  Probably unused since the day it was crafted.

  The room lay twenty feet long by ten wide, far smaller than most great halls he visited; four tables with benches lined the outer walls. A throne of spear grass and rock with a few scant precious gems found on the island adorned the chair. A brooding man with a stern expression sat upon the unyielding seat.

  “My Lord Eminence, may I present to you Norek, the outsider, wayward traveler, hard worker of your people. Norek,” the herald turned to him, “you are in the presence of His Eminence, King of the Forgotten Isles.”

  Norek stopped with his procession midway through the hall and knelt. The monarch glanced up from his contemplation and cold, blue eyes appraised Norek. The king’s short, strawberry blonde hair flecked with gray and the closely cropped beard matched, both kept with meticulous care.

  “No outsider has set foot within these halls within the last legend,” the monarch stated. His voice, though low and quiet, spoke in clipped tones. With his first sentence, Norek knew the ruler did not mince words nor waste his breath on excessive frivolities. He stated facts, offering cold silence for a companion almost as frigid as his expression.

  Then, why did you bring me here?

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  Norek said, “You honor me, Your Eminence.”

  “I don’t honor you. Your very presence here defiles this hall. If I didn’t need you, you’d still be on the beach. Still, I did call on you.”

  Grimacing inwardly, Norek tried a different tactic. “How may I be of service to you, Your Eminence?”

  “You may rise,” the other bade. “I am nothing to you. You may address me as King Godfrey.”

  “As you wish, King Godfrey. What do you require of me?”

  “I understand you’re a man of many talents,” Godfrey began, a hint of admiration entering his voice. “Even those you keep hidden. I recognize a mage staff when I see one. Tell me, what is your specialty.”

  “My specialty?”

  Godfrey rolled his pale blue eyes. “Don’t play coy, it’s unbefitting of a man. Coy is a woman’s game, one well-played by the residents here. Tell me, has a woman of the Isles graced your bed?”

  “No, King Godfrey.” His brow frowned at the odd question.

  The monarch actually smiled at this, then his face returned to the typical scowl. “It’s unfortunate you have not tasted the flesh of our women. Even if you did, I worry not about you spreading foul seed among us. Back to my original question: what’s your specialty?”

  “I possess many, but my primary skill lies in the art of orb gazing.”

  “Ah,” Godfrey smiled again, “an Owlen mage.” From Godfrey’s expression, Norek surmised he already knew the answer.

  I must be careful with this man.

  Since setting foot in the Isles, Norek abstained from calling on magic unless need demanded it. As of yet, no such incident arose. If Godfrey ferreted out his hidden side, Norek must assume that all questions were potential traps, and if caught in a lie, he didn’t know what repercussions awaited.

  And I don’t want to find out!

  “I’ve always heard of Owlen mages but never met one. Would you care to demonstrate your abilities?”

  Norek almost laughed but controlled the foolish urge. Scrying the future didn’t work the way people assumed. “King Godfrey,” Norek began, choosing his words carefully, “perceiving what’s to come isn’t always assured. Many times—”

  “It’s not the future I wish to know,” the monarch interrupted with his quiet voice. “I want to test your abilities. Scry the past. What’s my given name?” A smile twitched upon his lips.

  Norek fumbled for his leather satchel, and spears lowered, poised to kill. The lord waved them away, and Norek withdrew his crystal orb. A white fog filled it, but the center remained clear. He palmed the sphere, the size of a small orange. Norek knelt, his right hand dancing over in a clockwise motion. The crystal ball floated, the dull fog glowing pearl with luminance. Norek breathed a few words, hot breath fogging the surface. The color changed to a bright red cloud before returning to its previous state.

  Raising his eyes, he spoke. “Your given name is Callum; Callum Godfrey, second son of Edmund Godfrey.” A satisfied grin crossed the king’s face, but it didn’t reach the eyes.

  Nothing genuine has come from that man in ages I’m willing to bet.

  “Well done. Another test, why do I rule and not my eldest brother?”

  Again, Norek muttered his words, and his bulb glowed and shot red, then returned to the pearl sheen. “He reigned for three years before being afflicted with a malady. There isn’t a treatment for him, and he never returned. Therefore, the throne fell to you.”

  “And this malady?”

  Norek swallowed hard. “Bloodlust is the most common term.”

  “Where do people go for the bloodlust malady?” The king’s eyes twinkled with malevolence.

  “To the Black Tide of House Eti. He’s Krey now.”

  “I hear,” Callum changed the subject, “there is a war going on in your realm, is this true?”

  “Begging your pardon, King Godfrey, but it isn’t my realm.”

  “Oh, come now,” he chuckled. “Your hair and aristocratic features give you away; you’re born of noble blood. You definitely came from Ralloc or one of the other great cities.”

  “I am an orphan, King Godfrey. My parents died in the Wizard’s War. I’ve been traveling since I was old enough.”

  “Nevertheless, I know your kind, and now you do, too. So, tell me, is it true? Ralloc is at war?”

  “Yes,” Norek supplied.

  “Did you gaze that from your orb?”

  “No, King Godfrey. That was common knowledge when I left port to come here.”

  “Then gaze into your orb and tell me the fate of my brother. I realize the Krey are nothing but fodder for the Grand Royal Army. Tell me if it’s true.” Again, Norek peered within, but this time, it showed him something different. It showed him more than what he wished. The king’s brother flashed through, but the last thing he glimpsed was a woman with hair the color of flame. Norek looked back up to Callum. He controlled his surprise and expression, but his heart thrummed in his chest.

  “Your brother still lives.” The king’s fond scowl deepened at the news. Whatever answer he searched for, Norek failed to deliver. Godfrey rose, and as custom, everyone knelt, including him.

  “You will dine with me, the queen, and my children tonight. Once we’ve feasted, and I’ve asked more questions, you’ll return to the beach.” The king left the hall in a silent storm. Norek watched him go, only rising after his departure.

  If I’m still alive on the morrow, I’m boarding the first ship out of here.

  Godfrey hadn’t lied when he spoke of a feast. A freshly butchered pig roasted all day and lay in the center of the table. Potatoes imported from the Eastern City were boiled and mashed and mixed with goat’s milk—the same goat later slaughtered for the feast. Leafy Isle greens were steamed and mixed with a white grain grown on stalks like corn; carrots, broccoli, and mushrooms augmented the roasted pork and smoked goat. Servants passed out spiced rum stored in oak casks with ginger root. Norek had never seen a clearer vintage. It went down smooth but smoldered in the pit of his stomach.

  All the lords turned out for the feast, few as there were. Norek didn’t take the time to find out their names. They weren’t inclined to commune other than the customary greeting. Even the captain of the guards and the herald sat in at the feast. In the municipals far to the south, past the Eastern City, the courts would never allow the herald to attend. With so few at the king’s gathering, exceptions were made.

  After they had gorged themselves with pies of blueberry, blackberry, and koja, a fruit only indigenous to the island. A dull royal blue skin covered the bright crimson interior. The koja was a sweet fruit, almost tart, and juicier than a tangerine. More rum flowed with each meal course; clear, amber, and dark infused with spice, ginger, and other local fruits. Each tapped cask boasted a different wood for flavoring and aging. Finding themselves deep in their cups, Callum called Norek forward and bade him to conduct a show. Lords asked random questions of the past. When they had their fill of laughs and curiosities, Callum held a hand for silence.

  “Norek, tell me of Ralloc.”

  Norek dipped his head before answering. “I can only tell what I know from books I’ve been privileged enough to read. I haven’t seen Ralloc with my own eyes.”

  Callum grunted. “I have no use for a description of their sprawling spires, I shall witness that soon enough. Tell me, who runs Ralloc?”

  Norek let out an inaudible sigh and once again turned to his globe. This time, the pearl glow sputtered and shot through with purple, then black before returning to its prior state. “I see a woman with purple eyes and red hair, pale skin like snow, and the wrath of gods tearing the sky asunder.” This news gave Godfrey pause as his cold countenance measured Norek.

  At last, he spoke. “To the full moon!” he toasted. Norek, not privy to the meaning, stood with his brow frowning. At last, the king impassioned his men as he drained his rum. “On the full moon, we sail for the Golden City. If they turn us away, we’ll raze them. If they accept us to port, we’ll journey to Ralloc, where we’ll demand to become part of their domain. From there, I shall lay claim to my right.” His men cheered, from the lords to the soldiers standing guard. The king’s plan, though bold and straightforward, lacked logic. Why would Ralloc want to accept the Isles into their republic? Plus, Islanders were known for being isolationist, and they lacked wealth and materials. With nothing to offer Ralloc, Norek doubted their acceptance.

  There’s something else I am missing. There’s more than just this simple move.

  “Outsider,” the monarch said through the cheers. “You’ve defiled our hall long enough. Take your leave, on the morrow board a ship, and don’t return.”

  “As you command.” He bowed low, making sure he gave no slight and left briskly. The soldiers intended to escort him to the beach, but Norek shrugged them off, telling them that he could find his own way.

  By the time he left the castle, Nykron and Faellon had risen, and a black velvet covered the sky. The cool, irritating sand managed to find the space between his toes, and he cleared the grit by shaking his feet out to the side. The sound of crashing waves encouraged his haste.

  He reached his small hut, barely more than a lean-to, and a blonde woman with emerald eyes awaited within.

  “What are you doing here?” Norek barked, startled by the woman’s presence.

  She smiled. “The king sent me to you with a message: ‘no man should go without a woman of the Forgotten Isles.’”

  Norek nodded, thinking before he spoke. “Tell the king that I thank him for his kind gift, but it’s unnecessary.”

  “Refusing His Eminence will be a terrible dishonor to him and his family.”

  “I mean no disrespect—”

  “It’ll be perceived that way,” the woman confided, “and he’ll not take kindly to rejection. It won’t go well for you, Outsider.” Norek chewed his lower lip for a moment, debating his options. When no obvious choice came, the woman continued, taking his silence as a refusal. “The last clan who refused a gift were expunged.”

  “He exiled them or erased all written record of them?”

  She laughed, a bright and cheerful noise. “No, Outsider, he had them cleansed. The whole family was put to death.”

  Norek swallowed.

  “How do you think he’ll look upon me and my failure?”

  He was set to leave in the morning, and disrespect meant death. He eyed her. The woman was gorgeous, and he didn’t need much encouragement. Still, it seemed too simple, like a trap of some kind. Eating the last of his resolve to refuse, Norek nodded.

  “Very well. I accept the king’s gift.”