A Break

For the last 6 months, I have shared the story of four wonderful characters, Steven, Anya, Rosalyn and Argen. The Riftlands have become a concise but brilliant place, filled with wonder and the horrors of the rift. I plan to take a break from this project for a time, probably a few weeks, and then return with a new set of characters, a new world, and a new story. For any who have read this, I appreciate your support.

The Nomination

The Honored Sir Argen Teyr walked in his formal blues brusquely to the quarters he shared with his wife. The silky blue garments whisked lightly with the quickness of his steps. Sweat beaded on his brow, and he leaned against the wall in a brief pause. The ruling council had nominated him to be the First, and he had declined. He was a swordsman, a soldier, not a politician. He was a pretty young face they thought they could control to their own ends, a hero to the people, like Steven before him. Akin to Steven, he politely, firmly demurred.

The Exit

Rosalyn ran to him as he trudged from the gate, bearing Anya. Like a half-wit, he stumbled dazedly and tripped face-first into the spring, carrying Anya’s limp form with him. The cold water shocked him back to his senses. Argen could hardly believe the idyllic glade with its small fresh spring, fragrant pines and soft grass, after what seemed an eternity in the bizarre realm of the rift. Rosalyn took Anya, far beyond help, and wept. Exhausted, he comforted Rosalyn in her grief. Argen had spent all of his tears during the long descent, carrying the one who saved him.

The Path Ahead

An eerie twinkling and piercing metallic dissonance filled the air. The cloudy energies of the rift swirled about them; wispy eddies of shades from crimson to gold, predominated by crimson and violet. The crunching of the crystalline path as the proceeded was piercing to the ears, while making quick work of the soles of their boots. The ozone scent of the rift was not unknown to them, but it was overwhelmingly powerful. They pressed onward, following the only path laid out in the eerie waste. The sorcerer was ahead, they would find him. The end neared for he or them.

The Decision

Two good friends were buried; homecoming felt more solemn than victorious. Rosalyn nuzzled into Argen’s shoulder, the sun lighting on their faces, warding chill from the wind. Before the Hall of Solace they stood, not yet wanting to enter. After a moment, Ros dozed on her feet, leaning more heavily against him. A year ago, she would have never let her guard down, never trusted anyone to support her or protect her. Her hair, close cut and curling slightly under her ears, smelled of lavender and cloves. In that moment, Argen decided to ask for her hand, once mourning was done.

The Brandy

Their quarters were smallish, but they were home. Rosalyn had put her flair and sensibilities into the décor, which was reflected in the ebony furniture and carved marble tabletops. Argen had contributed the old crimson and silver tapestry that had hung in his childhood home. His father’s sword hung on the wall. The hearth was empty, the smell of old ash in the air. He sipped brandy as he read reports. Their quarters felt still and empty; Rosalyn was out on patrol with some younglings, and would not return for another month. Argen’s students were poor company compared to Ros.

The Last

Anya fell with the crimson shard in her pale chest; blood rushing down the grooved crystal, bubbling from her lips. His reserves were spent. Staggering, he lurched forward, fueled by the peace of one who knows he is to die. Advancing across the jagged glassy ground, acrid smoke from twelve shots roared to no effect. The sorcerer stood impassively until Argen limped within arm’s reach. Only then did the two sanguine shards over the sorcerer’s shoulders aim for his heart. They streaked, shattering before they struck. The sorcerer’s eyes widened. Argen turned. Anya hovered, inches off the ground, retribution incarnate.

The Triumphant Return

Bells rang throughout the city, heralding the return of the army. The banners were flown high and the soldiers, wounded and unscathed alike, had polished their armor for the procession. Soldiers washed and shaved was a rare sight, but this march was the army’s homecoming as much as a celebration for the civilians. Sunlight glinted off helmets and mail as the scent of well oiled leather mixed with the flowers thrown into the path of the march. Few rode, aside from the Lord Marshal and his generals. The Cavaliers took no part, having returned far ahead of the main host.

The Bier

The bier was borne by six soldiers, who held it high. She lay in ivory silk with a transparent veil, she had been washed and dressed by Rosalyn, who walked ahead of the bier with Argen. Rosalyn and Argen were in their formal greens and blues, with the white Cavalier’s coats embroidered in their path colors overtop. The cairn the procession made for was atop a green hill, and the tall grass danced to and fro in the warm summer breeze. A nearby tree provided shade over the site; Argen planted and enchanted lilies around the stones. Anya loved lilies.

The Boy

The boy’s head lay limply in her lap; she bowed over him. Blood ran from his wound and ears, slowly congealing on her snowy dress, staining the green grass ochre. The spark of life was in him when she first conducted, but it winked out before she could arrest it. Tears fell onto his young, shattered face mixing with the subsiding sanguine flow from his caved skull. Anya stood by, remotely fused, allowing her some time. Healing was deeply emotional work. Even amongst the stink of dead and cries of dying, healers, Cavalier or not, brought life. They brought hope.

The Wrath

The ground opened and deep crimson, streaked with violet poured forth as only the rift could. The air was full of acid, metallic taste permeating every breath, stuffing foulness into every pore. The black cloaked sorcerer pointed towards them. The following rolling destruction emanating from the rupture threw them from their feet. The sound, the tearing of the earth, was immense and pressed on them like a catastrophe. The sorcerer stood grinning, enraptured in wrath, unaffected by the gaping scar from which the unchained energy poured. Rosalyn was up, red curls ablaze, knives shining. Back on his feet, Argen drew.

The Watch

It was a quiet, nearly moonless night. The sparse forest was wet and verdant, filled with mushrooms and mold. Argen snored softly, away from the banked coals of the fire they allowed themselves. Anya tossed and turned in her bedroll, as she so often did, soft mewling cries occasionally slipping through her pale, drawn lips. Ros could still taste the delicious spongy mushrooms they discovered and had fried in butter. With her back to a tree, she stood watch with her ears, not her eyes. There were too many shadows dancing through the wood to rely on what she saw.

The Plunge

He was flying. The murky, cold water surrounded him in a rush; he sank like a stone. Working quickly to loose himself from the encumbering pack slung about his shoulders, he could feel the pressure building. A moment’s panic struck when he found his cloak’s clasp tangled with his gear, but he wrenched it all away. The straps slipped loose; pack falling deeper, along with his cloak. A quick scissoring of his legs, and he made for the surface. His head broke water, and he saw, as he drew a deep, ragged breath, that the ship was a flaming hulk.

The Mindtouch

It was an effective, if unsettling, method of communication. By reaching out to another Cavalier conducting the Rift in a light fashion, like a whisper across a feather, you could make a mental bridge to their mind. The communication was all sensation, no words or coherent thoughts. He conferred the horrors by their stench and wrongness, through sight of the scythe-like talons and bony carapace. He conveyed their range similarly. Breaking contact always left a sense of nausea and emptiness. The joining of two minds was useful for this, but too close in ways to the arts the sorcerers practiced.

The Sky Lights

It was the midsummer festival on High Day, but the sun had long since set. The muggy heat hung thick in the air and the smell of powder from fireworks was carried on the wind. People were gathered now, waiting for the great spectacle of every High Day in Ysrindil: the sky lights. Cavaliers came together, and in a great ritual, painted the night. The coruscating colors danced and mingled, blossoming bright as dusk. It was of the rift; but unthreatening. Beautiful, so unlike the horrors and sorcerers the rift bred. Argen was no less impressed than the common folk.

The Market

The cakes were sweet, and she savored every crumb on her plate. After months of bland camp food, it was excellent to have a fresh baked, sugared treat from a city market. The smell of hot iron from the blacksmith mixed with the sweet scents of the bakery. Colorful dressed and tapestries were being sold in stalls. She brushed the crumbs from her hands before feeling the soft, shiny silk of a blue dress. The battles did not have much effect in the city; citizens hawked their wares and bustled to their destinations regardless of grim happenings on the frontier.

The Taste

A slow deep fog had crept into town before dawn, and with the light, most of what one saw was thick impenetrable grey past a few yards in any direction. The fog was cool and damp, with the smell of the lake in it; a welcome change from the dry heat of the past few days, but decidedly odd. Something in the air tasted sharp, wrong. He watched his flanks as he made his way down the main road towards the general store; he did not expect an attack, but in this fog, it would not hurt to be ready.

The Trance

The breaths came in slow, even, measured intervals, striving to be as still as possible. The well of passions, the strongest of emotions: rage, love, fury, lust, despair and triumph were at her fingertips, separated from her mind by only will. The trance helped immensely, providing an extra stillness. She could trance need for food or sleep, so that when she released it, she would be ravenous but too tired to eat. She was to be guarded in battle for the same reasons. In the trance, it was her and the rift; there was no sensation, no touch, sound, sight.

The Power

The stars were vast in the sky, tiny pinpricks of light. The rift-lights were not visible with no clouds in the sky. She picked out the constellations: old mother, the hound, the sage, the bear. Argen dozed nearby in his bedroll, and the fire was reduced to smoldering coals, but the dry woodsmoke rose true in the calm night. Anya was several spans away, in her trance enveloped by wispy blues, violets and crimson. Ros could sense her power even from here, and she grew stronger everyday. She hoped Anya would be as strong as they needed her to be.

The Charge

A thunderous outcry came at the command; pikes came down and were set for change. The armor of the men of the riftlands glinted in the noonday sun and the pennants of pikes trembled. Blood ran hot, but was calmed by the soft breeze. An anxious calm silence permeated after the cry, interrupted only by the incoming thunder of hooves. The rift horrors bore down on them, the four legged, hoofed armored scythers charging like cavalry, the serpentine spine spitters and the spiderlike shock troops not far behind. The pass, with its tall stone walls, was their last best hope.

The Dancing Girl

She was surly; he thought he could almost feel the heat rising from her flushed cheeks, she was so close. Her skirts billowed, white flashing under as the crimson outer skirts flared. The village folk sang with the music and danced occasionally in the smoke filled common room, but mostly it was the two outsiders who spent their night in the cleared corner. By the time they both sat, sweating and exhausted, his legs like jelly. He ordered two drinks, and cooled his forehead with the chilled clay mug. This was not an expected evening from such a small town.

The Dawn's Light

He rolled over on his hard bedroll; softer than the rocky ground, true, but his body did not thank him for it. The dewdrops gleamed in the nearby grass and the amber hues of dawn were lighting the sky. Anya snored lightly, curled into a ball on her own bedroll. She reminded Argen so often of a small child that it was easy to forget how dangerous she truly was. Rosalyn was inches away, a smirk on her face, chest rising and falling lightly. He lay his head back down and closed his eyes. It was not yet time to rise.

The Spring Breeze

The sky opened; sunlight poured like a fountain of gold. In sodden lanes between tents, people smiled, looking to the pillar of warmth which promised to dry the land. The rain had gone on for three weeks, and the entire camp was muddy, sticky and unkempt. The sunlight brought a sweet breeze perfumed with the hint of blossoms, which carried away the wet, foul smell of the encampment. What reprieve the early spring storms had brought them from the enemy was welcome; it had bought time to fortify the pass. It was likely the horrors would come again, and soon.

The Slums

Stone pounded underfoot, jarring her pumping legs as she sped from the scene. Wrapped in her dark cloak and leathers, she was a shadow, if a noisy one. In this part of the city, few cared about the sound of a running girl. If she ran to or from something was no concern of theirs. They could not be bothered to repair their homes or move the garbage piled in the alleys; they only cared about being left alone, alive and un-bullied. Ducking around a corner, she slowed, entering the back of a tumbledown inn, where unobtrusive clothes were waiting.

The Planning

It was rain again. Six days of constant, soaking drizzles from the gray sky was taking a toll on morale. The ground was soggy; the camp smelled like a swamp. Soldiers and officers alike huddled in tents, for what little good it did after so many days of constant dampness. Even braziers lit to dry the enclosures only added to the oppressive mugginess. The quartermasters were the busiest, struggling to keep dry goods unspoiled. Argen, Rosalyn and Anya wanted to keep to their tents, but spent most of the week planning. They had to be ready when the weather changed.

The Remembered

Fragments of the Hinterlands campaign came back to him while riding. He had still been young, vital, full of life. The Anointed Sir, Steven Elan Trengale of the Path of Solace flashed in his memory. Recollection was imperfect, as through bubbled, smoky glass, but the blue embroidered white coat over formal Cavalier’s dress was impressive. His face was fuller, his shoulders less stooped. He did not reek of age or feel the aches of time’s millstone. He was warmer, more trusting, but unpolished, less deadly. The Hinterlands made him a man, made him a hero, and cost him his freedom.

The Hero's End

One error in judgment and it was over; a shard had pierced cleanly through. He collapsed, blood pouring from his throat, soaking the white finery under his duster, turning the embroidered blue helix a sinister plum. His eyes strained to stay open. His arm, still grasping his revolver, folded across his chest. The black cloaked sorcerer approached; he did not laugh, did not gloat.

He knelt over Steven’s fading body, “Would you return whence you came, Cavalier?”

Steven managed an affirmative reply, struggling even for such. The sorcerer nodded began conducting a gate. Argen had to know how it ended.

The Cavalier's Dues

Sleek and lithe, she stretched gracefully, yawning with her hands linked above her head. Her spotted mare was groomed and saddled. The stableboy handed her off to Anya and she swung into the seat, her long dark hair settling across one shoulder, accenting the lightning bolts climbing her grey woolen dress’ sleeves. The village was old; paint flaked off the buildings, the whole place smelled of horse and harvest. It had welcomed her and she had made the Cavalier’s dues, tending the sick and wounded, hearing their trials in exchange for food and shelter; it was time to move on.

The Morning

He relaxed his stiffened muscles slowly, relishing the release of tension, the tingling awakening of his muscles, the slow calm that roused his drowsy, stiff body as the process vitalized him. He was supple; the willow bending in the wind. His mind stilled, the rift was at his command, but he resisted the urge to seize it. He leaned against a stack of crates adjacent to his tent, taking in the scents of breakfast and smoke drifting in darkness. Firelight flickered, illuminating his pursed lips. Asleep after midnight, he was up before dawn. It promised to be another long day.

The Taking

Blood ran down his face from a gash that should have opened his skull. He twisted at the last moment, lost his sword to a blow to his arm and had been taken. The three did not bind him; weak as he was. One supported him lazily, half dragging him when he stumbled. His arm hung limply, tingling. His mouth tasted of salt and iron. The fat one had his sword. The corridor stank, and through red glazed eyes, he saw they had brought him to a dungeon. With a sharp creak, a cell opened; he was cast into darkness.

The Peace

The sun shone down on them, warm and bright under cloudless sky as they crossed the open field. Tall grass wavered gently in the wind, which carried the scents of wildflowers interspersed across the plain. The wagon tracks they traveled were the only place in sight where the grass did not stand waist high, surrounded as they were by a sea of green and gold, interspersed with colored fragrant blooms. They halted. Anya smiled slightly, standing on tip-toes to see as far as she could. Rosalyn leaned on Argen’s shoulder and sighed. A moment of peace and beauty was welcome.

The Theatre

The theatre was damp from the leaky ceiling; ill lit, with splintery benches and stagnant smoke filling the hall. It was a copper to enter, and wine flowed freely for another per pour. Patrons had to bring their own mugs. Rosalyn had never seen such a foul, common degradation of the actor’s art. The fearful players yelled their parts to cut through the rambling of the audience, though few listened. A copper for shelter from the rain was a deal in even the poorest quarter of Alandren. She followed her prey here; she would wait for him to move on.

The Elder Wood

The soft patter of the rain on the leaves reminded him of his youth, and the running footsteps of the tenant boys upstairs. Sporadic beams of sunlight broke through the clouds, creating dazzling rainbows for a few moments before fading. For all the beauty of the forest, with its tall trees and soft earth, there was eeriness to it. Not something evil, but something old, primal, wafting up with the scent of the decaying leaves. He wrapped his cloak tightly, the rain slicking off the oiled exterior, and pressed deeper into the elder wood. He sought, but knew not what.

The Daemon

She shouldered the door open and rushed across the room. A bolt thudded in the doorframe, tearing her dress and opening a gash on her arm. She crashed through the window. It was a short drop from the window to the rocky ground, but a sharp crack left her ankle in a blaze of pain. A sea of rage welled up, consuming her fear. She fumbled for the trance but her conduits were wide open; the rift a raging, vindictive daemon. She screamed in her mind, and only then realized her voice was already a cry of anguish and vengeance.

The Speaker

A crowd bustled around them, nearly crushing them in its celebratory fervor. Anya wavered on her feet, dreamlike, held up only by the soldiers and camp followers which thronged around them. Rosalyn pushed back at the crowd, vainly trying to make room which filled in as soon as it was created. With a sigh, Argen drew his revolver and fired it into the air. The din of the crowd trailed off; a space opened around them and all eyes turned to him. He dropped the gun into his holster, and slipped his thumbs through his belt loops.

“Victory!” he yelled.

The Wait

Holding the power of the rift, she idly tapped at the keys of the harpsichord. Crackling energy circulated through her, longing to be used, setting her nerves and senses alight. Colors leapt from the vibrant tapestries embroidered in thread-of-gold. The sharp scent of the cheese and sausages across the room flowed into her. Touching the rift was pain and pleasure all wrapped into one; every sense enhanced, every emotion amplified. She stilled her mind, though a sea of rage whirled with love was all too present. She would have only one chance to free Argen, and she would not fail.

The Chambers of the First

The windows of Ysrindil glittered like flickering diamonds as he looked out over the city. The thin rift-crafted rail of the balcony was solid, glassy to the touch beneath his hands, though it looked as a brisk breeze might snap its spindly filaments. The moon cast a dull glow from its silver crescent, playing lightly off of rooftops and the shorter towers. The light wood smoke of cookfires from the many inns carried up even this high, though the air was still. Steven sighed, turning to return to his quarters. They honored him, but he would not be the First.

The Gypsy Camp

The music was loud and pounded in her ears, but she reveled, dancing in its eerie rhythm. Gypsy clans roamed all over the westlands. When they came to a village to open their bazaars and trade, the evenings turned to great celebrations where villagers were invited into camp. The villagers shared food; the clan shared exotic passions. Their tinny instruments combined with the rapid beat of drums to heat blood and embroil heart and mind. Incense combined with torchlight to create flickering mania in song and dance. In this, even a killer could forget what she was and feel alive.

The Demon Lightning

Rolling sheets of lightning crackled through the cloudy night sky, the heat oppressive even hours after the setting of the sun. Argen’s mother had called this demon lightning, and considered it an ill omen, as it came without rain. Steven called it dry lightning, and mused that it might be caused by the heat and the thickness of the air. Sweat beaded on Argen’s brow as he lay in the soft grass and watched the sheets roll. The sharp scent of the lightning mingled with the sweet grass and salty sweat, but it reminded Argen of home, now far behind.

The Awakening

When he awoke, it was dark. A delirious fever raged through him. In his confusion, he scrambled to one knee. His revolver was fully loaded and in its holster, and the few pouches he carried at all times: ammunition, a day's worth of trail food, and useful odds and ends were still intact. His clothes were stiff with blood, some his, and some the ocher and slimy green of the horrors. The last he remembered, he was making his to camp. Now, in the moonlight among the dead, it was obvious he had not. How long had he been out?

The Laundry

The white soles of the washroom gleaned with summer sun pouring through the thrown open shutters. The heavy steam of the boilers wafted on the warm breeze. The sheer number of chores the Anointed were expected to contribute to was immense. Of them all, she despised laundry duty. To make it worse, the Anointed were not allowed to conduct while sweeping, mending, washing or cooking. Instructors insisted it built character to do without using the rift for such menial things. With her sleeves rolled to her shoulders, her arms elbow deep in a tub of washing, Rosalyn did not agree.

The Butcher's Field

In the cacophony of battle, he had been separated from familiar faces. The howls of the butcher’s field had fallen dim. He dimly remembered a Cavalier from the battle: middle aged, handsome and plump with faint grey in her brown hair; she extracted the spine from his shoulder and conducted to patch his wound. Few living things remained in this part of the battlefield, the living had rejoined battle if able. He reloaded without thinking. The dawning understanding that it was done, combined with the bone deep weariness, hit him like a hammer. Stumbling from exhaustion, he made for camp.

The Obsidian Hills

They had not seen any life other than themselves in two weeks. The obsidian hills were warm, a welcome break from the deathly chill which they had traversed to reach them. The black glass formed spires and spines all around them, groaning beneath their feet from time to time. Molten rock in a deep crevasse chuffed steam and smoke; the sky responded, dusting down ash and ice. They broke for rough lunch, jerky and trail bread, avoiding the sharp stones which littered potential seats. They drew close now, close to the final resting place of the founding First among Equals.

The Castle Ravensmount

The walls of the keep rose starkly for several spans, expanding into wide battlements. The red stone was flecked with black and gold, fused by Cavaliers of old. Castle Ravensmount was considered impregnable; even the gates were rift strengthened. Atop the walls, Steven looked to the horizon and the shifting colors of the rift. The castle would certainly be besieged again, as it had been so many times before, but the stores would hold; no surrender. A charged breeze carried the buzzing scent of the rift, wafting his cloak clumsily. This riftland rebellion smelled like the wind; not quite right.

The Horrors

Crouched behind a hedge, Argen could feel the wrongness of the creatures. They were twenty, perhaps thirty, yards distant but they had a sickening corruption about them, like oily smoke which clung to your sanity. There were three of the creatures, slithering like the snakes that their lower body resembled, but holding themselves upright like mockeries of men. Bony plates covered bladed arms, protecting heads and torsos which were only vaguely human. Rift horrors, Argen knew, that much was certain from the seeping madness. Which kind, he did not know. He waited for them to pass, then ran to report.

The Spine

White hot fire lanced through his shoulder; the resultant spasm of his right arm muddled his sight red and black. A foot of chitinous spine bloomed from his chest. He staggered, but did not fall. His revolver hung limply from twitching fingers. Mesmerized by the spreading wet scarlet on his shirt, time slowed. The battle raged, shrieks of rift horrors, valiant battle cries and the anguish of the injured forming a deafening, chaotic din. He took the gun in his left hand. Grinning through the blazing pain, he loosed a mad laugh, and blew a crater in an advancing horror.

The Ennui

He rolled out of bed quietly and began to dress, gathering his clothes from where they had been recklessly tossed. He buckled his belt, secured the strap that prevented his heavy revolver from bouncing, and quickly checked over his other belt pouches. A deep sense of ennui seemed to hover over the village, and it was unnerving. He wanted to get a look around to investigate this feeling before day set in. Her freckled shoulder poked from beneath the blankets as she dozed. The light had not yet fallen across her face; he would let her sleep a bit longer.

The Children

A girl with long blonde hair and a grin snarled by the loss of two of her teeth played with a boy of darker complexion, with tight dark hair and pale blue eyes. They ran, dancing and laughing. Anya perched nearby, concealed in the crux of a tree, watching down through the leaves. Bark and soil mingled with grass in this ballet of innocence. She conducted, setting exuberant motes and music among the children, who embraced it; such things were not unknown in Ysrindil, seat of the Cavaliers. A desire burned in her, faint tears traced wetly down her cheeks.

The Carving

The slight curves, subtle and graceful, leapt from the bone as he carved. It was an old hobby, and the smell of the well-oiled tools in their leather satchel was a touch of comfort, a touch of home, even on campaign. Several other pieces in various stages of completion, one of expensive ivory from far to the south, lined the table ahead of him, where the lamplight flickered over them. The wings of a carved bird cast a particularly fearsome shadow. He smiled, shaving off another thin slice from the piece in hand. It would be a whale, he thought.

The Gate

The gate formed before him, an arch framing a cascading sheet of softly crackling blue. He maintained concentration as it solidified and exhaled, rippling his duster. Within, the wispy energies of the inner rift were violet and green streams in an ocean of deep blue. The air was sharp, like after lightning. He stepped through the portal. He felt a sense of stretching as he was pulled across the distance between the gate and its terminus. As soon as he was fully through, the gate forcibly closed. Goosebumps broke out over his skin and one hand dropped to a revolver.

The Sight

He performed the cleaning rituals on his weapons, washed his clothes, re-oiled his gear, and mended a tear in his plain canvas tent. The fragrant spring breeze drifted through, chilling his bones, even as the sun still rose. Soldiers and followers hailed him occasionally as they passed, but mostly left him to his chores. Finished, he sat on the folding camp stool and pulled a leather bound book from his pack. Settling in to read, he sighed. He was an old man; his retirement was behind him. He did not have the sight, but he knew his days were numbered.

The Burnout

A cold calm suffused him, though he raged behind the barrier. The pressure had reached a point where he was sure more would have broken him, but he bore on, and it continued to build. He was simply a tool to the commanders, a piece on a board to be utilized until it wore out or needed be sacrificed. Unending tasks were his to be seen to, thankless and menial; apparently no one but he was capable of getting them done. His voice was flat, tired, and expressionless. His friends had left him, knowing he preferred to be left alone.

The Passed Sire

As a boy, he remembered his father leaving every spring, and returning every fall. His mother wept after father left each year, but the house remained full of the clean smell of laundry and fresh bread through the summer. When his father returned, he brought with him the smells of oiled, white bleached leather, polished steel, and earthiness borne deep into his gear. Such was the life of a knight captain in the Queensguard. Argen remembered the scents, the roughness of his father’s sword calloused hands, and the calm softness of his voice. He wished his father was here today.

The Victorious Camp

The bone weariness had yet to set in. The exaltation of victory kept the soldiers and their officers about far longer than any would have thought. Casks of ale and brandy were being freely distributed about the camp. Voices roaring with laughter and other life affirming activities drowned out cries from those who had lost friends or family. Yes, they had suffered losses, but they were comparatively light. The war was nowhere near over, but morale would improve. Argen leaned on a stack of crates, an arm around Rosalyn, who half-dozed on her feet her face nuzzled into his neck.

The Meadow

Her hair flowed out behind her and her skirts, divided for riding, bellowed as she worked her mount to into a gallop. The wind on her face was invigorating; the wild smell of the meadow called, but she knew better than to leave the track. In the vibrant tall grass and wildflowers there were holes and ruts which could break a horse’s leg. The sun shone on her face; she smiled as she reined in. She sighed momentarily. Riding, she felt alive, though her current mood was still a pale shadow next to the unending scarlet passion of the rift.

The Trap

Around the edges, flickering light crept in. There were no windows to admit the silver moonlight. She had heard the footsteps approaching her door, and now the candlelight. The faint metallic tapping of lockpicks was next. Rosalyn was seated in her shift, facing the door. The door creaked open and the candlelight seemed to flood the room. When the man entered, he was presented with her grinning face, framed by red curls, calmly fingering her stiletto. He staggered for a moment, almost loosing a startled yell before composing himself. He stank of wine. Rosalyn’s grin widened; the trap was sprung.

The Dead Lands

The verdant green was behind him, the frigid north ahead. The air was dry. His skin cracked and his boot-leather flaked with every step. His loose clothes frayed; ready to disintegrate from the desiccation. There was no sand, only scorched dirt; no scent, no wind, everything the same dull brown-grey. Nothing grew. Even conducted rift energies did not work properly here. His last waterskin was left behind this morning. His pack was left days before. Only his small ration pouches, his guns, his wits, and the rift remained. This had certainly been a mistake. He had to find water soon.

The Endless Wood

Dreams fled as he started from his reverie. It was cold and damp, his bedroll left behind. The fragrant foliage made poor bedding, as expected from a token effort to find comfort before collapsing. The forest was immense, dense, and foreboding. Few animals were seen, but they were present. Hoofbeats in the distance and bird calls broke the morning silence from time to time. The sour taste of the berries he had deemed safe last evening caked his mouth; he rinsed with a gulp of stale water from his skin. West he would continue. The forest had to end eventually.

The Sorcerer

The ground pounded beneath his feet. He conducted. Fountains of earth and fire flanked him, rippling outward; he continued to charge, guns in hand. Lances of fire came. Argen disrupted them. Acidic smoke wafted through the searing air, sweat sprang from his pores. He felt none of it. There was one objective, one thing in the whole world. The sorcerer raised his hands, and choked with a bullet in his throat; three others found his chest and gut. The sorcerer staggered and fell. Red blossomed through his robes. Argen skidded to a halt, reloading his revolvers. The battle raged on.

The Kyemvar Pass

An ephemeral heaviness hung in the air. It was a cloudy day, a rarity in summer, but still warm and damp. They were in retreat. After holding the hordes of rift-spawn at bay for nearly six months, the enemy had managed to turn their flank at precisely the wrong time. The sense of defeat was everywhere. Soldiers looked at the ground as they marched. The severely wounded moaned softly on wagons. Walking wounded gritted their teeth with every step. The Kyemvar Pass was their destination now. If the rift lords could not be held there, they would not be held.

The Incense

The tent was no shelter from the oppressive, humid heat. What it provided in shade was negated by lack of circulation. He rested uncomfortably on his bedroll, in his smallclothes. Shafts of light penetrated oiled canvas, illuminating smoke rising from the herbal incense Rosalyn enjoyed, burning next to her bedroll. She was out, helping the injured. He had avoided any hurt yesterday, aside from the exhaustion of battle. His muscles ached, but he dredged himself from laziness, dressing from a pile of neatly folded clothes. He wanted to see her, to make sure she was not pushing herself too hard.

The Field Hospital

Field surgery was a messy, bloody business; the grass ran red, smelling of salt and iron. She sat on a stool in the shady open tent, her clothes covered by bloody surgical garments. Anya was tranced on her feet, fused with Rosalyn, giving the healer more energy with which to work. The din of suffering patients and working medics was cacophonous. Maintaining wards on the hospital, especially pain blocks and regeneration fields, was draining. She stretched further, conducting occasionally to heal critical patients. They had been at this for hours, and the tide of wounded showed no signs of abating.

The Trance

An amber sphere of light followed her, casting a pale sepia glow across the long, still grass. The path was worn, but peppered with stones. She walked briskly, careful to maintain her step, breathing in the night. The evening was the edge of spring, shaking the slumber of winter. It was chilly, but not cold; damp, but not wet. Over her shoulder, she looked back to camp. She felt ill ease entering the trance around her friends, unless it was necessary. It was dangerous, but it allowed her to unlock her true potential, and that she would not be denied.

The Friendship

Her fingers crossed tough scars as she massaged the underlying knotted muscles. The oil smelled of cloves and lavender, soothing both of their minds. His clothes lay loosely piled aside the bedroll, her case of herbs and oils was open nearby. She had never done this for a friend; she had learned it as a cover for her previous life. Dim light permeating the tent played across his muscled back as the flap rippled with the wind. A soft snore brought a grin to her face as she realized Argen had fallen asleep. It was good to have him back.

The Edge of the Wood

Leaning against the rough trunk of an old tree, Argen surveyed the fields before him. Even in the deep shade of the thick wood, it had been growing brighter for hours before he stumbled out to the cleared land. He had been lost in the woods for several days, but he had kept on to the west, away from the fighting. He was dirty, low on rations, and exhausted. A farmhouse loomed in the distance, surrounded by outbuildings. A slight breeze carried harvest scents, warming him in the shade. He hoped the farmers would be friendly to a lone Cavalier.

The Tent

Thunder boomed overhead and the flickering of high lightning was incessant. The patter of rain on the tent was dampened by the ward Rosalyn had conducted, but the humid air still dampened everything. Anya frowned at her plate of fried fish. It smelled delicious, but the dim lamplight made clear that the dampness saturated anything. The army’s camp had welcomed them readily, but they had learned sadly that Argen had gone missing after their last engagement. She lay back on her bedroll comfortably, twining her fingers in the soft wool fringe of her blankets. He could not have gotten far.

The Cave

The cave was dry and cool, a relief from the dry heat outside. The light just barely stretched to the rear, where it revealed a small pool of cool, clear water. Argen refilled his waterskin and washed his face of dust. He stripped off his clothes and retrieved fresh clothes from his pack. Washing quickly with harsh soap, he re-dressed; chewing sweet, salty dried beef while he laundered. This place was better than most for spending a night. How long had he been on the run? Where were Anya and Rosalyn? He hoped they were faring better than he was.

The Healing Ward

Blood ran down her face from her burned scalp, staining singed cloak and grey dress alike. Smoldering, unrecognizable remains interspersed with shattered wood and stumps littered the scorched clearing. Anya wavered afoot, in better shape than Rosalyn. Smoke, ash and death surrounded them. Rosalyn momentarily cursed her abilities. She had a knack for wards, healing and negating that led her to the Path of Temperance. She knew how to kill, if not utterly destroy like Anya. Conducting painfully, she set to creating a healing ward. Anya would benefit from it as much as she once out of her dreamlike trance.

The Field

The sun was bright, but provided little warmth. This far north, the snow became ice as soon as it hit the ground. The chill killed scent, dampened sound. Even wrapped in all of their cloaks and coats, they would have frozen to death in hours without the protective field they were taking turns conducting. It was useful for keeping rain off, and it could control the temperature moderately. It was still cold inside, but not deadly so. Behind, they left a swath of melted, refrozen snow. It made them easy to track, but anyone after them would know their destination.

The Range

She was alive, more alive than she had ever felt. Anger, love, loss, and pleasure all surged within filling her completely; muscles flexed, nerves tingling. Even wrapped in the stillness, the barrier between her and the inferno of emotion, she was nearly consumed by passion. Sweat poured down her face, soaking her white Anointed’s dress. Ahead of her, she marked the painted targets out to five-hundred spans. She conducted her inner tempest at the first. As if by a giant invisible grinder, it was ripped apart. She smelled the sawdust from this range. Pleasure pounded within; she destroyed the rest.

The Gathered

A small room had been set aside for them, furnished in utilitarian fashion, with four well made chairs, a table, and a desk containing writing supplies. The walls were tiled ivory, but an enchantment laid long past attuned the interspersed colors to the Cavaliers within; Passion, Solace and Temperance were called forth. A mild scent of scrubbing powder indicated the room had been recently cleaned. Anya sat opposite Rosalyn; Argen opposite Steven. Anya, Argen and Rosalyn wore the white garb of the Anointed, accented with red, blue and green, respectively.

Steven wore his formal blues, “We are together at last.”

The Master and Apprentice

Shadows danced in the firelight as the acrid smell of smoke crept from burning green wood. Steven whittled quietly upwind of the fire, shaping a dry piece of wood he pulled from his pack. Argen lounged on his bedroll, avoiding the smoke. He had a full stomach and though tired, he felt vitalized. Not since Uncle Din’s death had he felt so safe. Steven, aside from showing him how to control the rift, was a kind, gentle instructor; harsh at times, with high expectations, but fair and just. Uncle Din had been a good teacher; Steven was an excellent master.

The Path of Passion

The hall narrowed at the end, leading to the break from the Hall of Solace. The mosaic tiles of the hall gave to bold colored runs leading to Cavalier’s personal quarters. Deep crimson forked left, down the Path of Passion. To the right of crimson, violet forged the Path of Ardor. In the center, azure flowed the Path of Solace. To the right of center, emerald wound the Path of Temperance. On the right, opposite the left, gold rose the Path of Light. Few Cavaliers walked the Paths of Light or Passion, dangerous as they were, but Anya strode forward.

The Intersections

He was lost. Trudging through the woods in the blind night for hours, he had emerged into an intersection of several deer runs. The dawn was filtering through the trees, shedding verdant light which mingled with the cool fog of the morning. The scent of mossy undergrowth filtered up his nose as he chewed a strip of rough jerky to breakfast. Considering the paths momentarily, he chose the westbound one which looked the least overgrown. So long as he kept in one direction, he would make it out of this wood eventually. The only question was where he would emerge.

The Festival of Lights

Anya walked the street in a dress she would have never before considered. Simple white wool with an embroidered golden helix on the breast; stout, a bit warm for summer, but comfortable nonetheless. The sharp cracks and acrid scent of small fireworks filled the streets. Lamps and candles shone out of homes; not even the poorest would let their houses go unlit during the festival of lights. It was a middle class neighborhood. Children played, adults drank and sang. It was a good night. The sense of dread that had been building in the east was momentarily warded by the festivities.

The Ward

The soft, wool stuffed mattress was like a cloud, with three down pillows. The Cavalier who attended him wore a gold tabard, and seemed to radiate serenity. ‘Probably why he makes a good healer’, thought Argen. The small four bed ward’s walls were polished white stone, shot through with veins of differing earthtones. A tray of hot, spicy soup was atop the nightstand next to his bed. The clock ticking on the warm mantle was archaic, a monument to the craftsman’s skill. On his back, Argen stared at the multicolored mosaic ceiling. He wondered how long his recovery would take.

The Waterfall

Misting onto her forehead, the water was cool and refreshing. Under the rock outcrop over which the water flowed, the spray enveloped her. She doused herself from the falling stream, scrubbing hair and body to clean the dust and grime of travel. The herbal soap mixed with the scent of the mist. Seated on a warm rock, she shook her pale skin dry, and set to the arduous taming of her curls. Packing after dressing, her gray linen dress clung to her, damp and heavy. She may have blood on her hands, but she did not have to appear filthy.

The Waystation

The wooden shack leaned to one side, supported by a great old elm. It was one small room, the whitewash peeling, small stove, box of supplies, and lumpy bed the only furnishings. Drafts wafted through cracks; the waystation was rarely used, ill maintained. Casting his cloak onto the unmade bed, he opened the storebox. The grain was well kept, if old. Taking some oats, he fed his mount, tethered to a post outside, and pumped water from the well. The moldy odor of the shack seeped into his pores as carried the water within to make a porridge for himself.

The Rime

Hard rime flourished in the trees, transforming the forest into a crystalline chapel. Light streamed through breaks in the cloud-cover, dazzling across the icy ground. The wind was calm, but the cold was brutal, threatening to induce never-ending sleep to any man stopping for too long. The cadre, two women and a man, moved briskly on foot. They had left their horses behind miles before, when the ground had become permanently frozen and forage was no longer viable. Swathed in their heavy white cloaks, layered in coats, three trudged forward. Their packs were lightening daily, but their destination lay north.

The High Pass

The rocky outcrop provided little protection from the wind driven rain, but it was better than trying to sleep on the side of the mountain. He wrapped the oil treated silk rain cape tightly about himself in a futile bid to keep dry. The pass, little more than a goat track, wound through the mountains allowing him to pass unknown, at the expense of taking a week rather than the few days. How many times had he lost the trail and doubled back? The main passes were all guarded and taxed, however, and it was imperative his entry not be known.

The Stillness

Her back was knotted, stiff as iron. Days in the saddle had covered her in small sores. Thoroughly miserable, she lay still on her bedroll, staring up at the cloudy sky. The grey shapes bubbled peacefully in the night sky, in sharp contrast to the fury of throbbing soreness she was. She took a deep breath and drew into herself, pushing, bending, her emotions and pain away. Her pain and annoyance were present, but not acute, rather like hot metal held through thick cloth. In the stillness, she considered her task. Haste was necessary, but she did not like it.

The Shard

“What is it?” Argen, his cloak wrapped tightly, motioned towards the glistening violet glass-like fragment hanging suspended in air. It resonated faintly, piercing; like a vibration in the mind.

Steven dismounted, sending snow up in a fluff as he landed. Settling his mare, he proofed his cloak against the cold, then approached, “It’s a Rift-shard: pure rift energy coalesced into physical form. They’re rare, and appear randomly, usually in places of extreme emotional history. I would not doubt if this was once a battlefield.”

Argen nodded. He could feel the energy bound within the shard, feel its desire for release.

The Slums

Children played in the muddy streets, their voices hushed but cheerful. A woman hung laundry in a window, and a young man selling coarse bread hawked and held his basket high. The buildings here were run down, but that was the fault of the landlords, not the tenants. They eked out what life they could for themselves. Not the worst neighborhood in the city, by any means, this is where hard workers making survivable wages lived. She would find who he was looking for in the next ward, thieves, disreputable sellswords, and price-women. A slaver could hide in that mess.

The Tavern

He shared the table with several others, well dressed, possibly lesser nobles or merchants. The polished circular table was cut with a channel, allowing the barmaid access to the center. She swept in, quickly re-filling tankards, lifting silver pennies from neat stacks next to the empties. This was an establishment where you could leave money on the table and not worry about it. Well cared for tapestries adorned the walls and no chill seeped in. A strange place to meet, but Argen waited. He needed the information from this contact, but he had a feeling it would not be cheap.

The Traveling Show

The menagerie was something entirely new to her. Throngs of people streamed through cages containing lions, bears, and wild looking giant wolves. Sheltered by a striped tent, a man ate fire. Cacophonous din surrounded her, broken only occasionally by the roar of a lion or the trumpeting of one of the strange gray giant war cows. Rosalyn did not know the creatures’ proper name. She stood, transfixed by the acrobats and a man walking the tightrope deftly, carrying a child on his shoulders. The road had been hard, but a smile split her face. This was a well deserved treat.

The Harpsichordist

Sitting in a den of intrigue, she concentrated on the music. The young performer was well dressed, though obviously not noble born. The music issuing from the harpsichord was slow, soothing and melodic, softly filling the air and caressing her mind. In her soft, velvet cushioned chair, surrounded by plots, schemes and traps, the music provided an anchor, a sense of calm. Members of other houses, powerful and minor, drifted through the party some stopping briefly to introduce themselves asking after her plans in the capitol. Snakes, all of them, silk wrapped, samite swathed serpents; she was one of them.

The Anointed

It was an eerie calm, silent, the air still. Stars twinkled above in a cloudless sky. The black coat, embroidered in silver and red, hung past his knees as if carved from stone. His hand hovered over the revolver he had no intention of using. There were twenty of them, likely more. The rough band had their weapons ready; they had not spoken, nor directly threatened.

Argen took a step forward, hedging that Steven might buy him time or respect, “I am the Anointed Argen Teyr, apprentice to the fallen Honored Sir Steven Elan Trengale, the Hero of the Hinterlands,”

The Note

It twisted her inside, like an ephemeral hand inside wrenching her apart; her mind, her heart, her soul. She folded and placed the yellowed note in her pouch. Re-reading it again would not change anything. Smoothing her skirts nervously, her green eyes flashed absently, engrossed in thought, wrestling with her inner tumult. It was a time for action, not for thought. She haphazardly gathered her gear, not wasting the time to pack nearly, as was her custom. Her mind was mechanical in suppressing her loss, anxiety and pain. Instead, she planned and hoped. He was not, could not be dead.

The Freckles

Bubbled glass rattled in loose casements against the wispy winter. The dim haze of morning pierced through, spilling across the bed. The fire was well banked, the room yet warm. He looked over her, admiring the pale, freckled shoulder stealing from the quilts. Her red ringlets sprawled unruly across her pillow. He extracted a feather from the pillow lest it poke and wake her. She turned, a slow, lazy roll away from the light. A smile passed across her lips. It was calm, peaceful. There were few mornings like this, and he wanted to enjoy what little time they had.

The Forms

The air was thick and suffocating as the heat of the summer day bore down on him. He worked through his training, running the sword forms again and again. Strike, parry, evade. A true battle would be hotter than this day. Sparring would come next, though sweat slicked him and the other students, the master, Uncle Din, shouted commands for the forms. In the training yard; Argen was another student learning the sword. Since arriving, he had come to have great respect for his uncle. The sun glared in his eyes and glinted off the practice blade. Strike, parry, evade.

The Four Griffons

Thunder boomed in the distance, and the patter of rain on the tile roof was just ignorable. It had been raining for three days, and she had been stuck in this miserable village since it set in. The ‘Four Griffons’, was the only inn in the village, and provided hard mattresses, splintery floors, drafty rooms, musty odors and terrible food for far too high a price, or so Anya thought. She kept to her room, sending her serving girls for anything she needed. Her men were likely bedded down in the hayloft with a jug of wine. She hated traveling.

The Gravedigger

He was tired in every fiber, his back was a fury of wariness, and his arms burned with exhaustion. He continued digging. Sweat ran from his brow, but he far beyond noticing the sting as it ran into his eyes. The dry air served to blow the dust, which stuck in his sweat. His shirt had been discarded long since. How many graves had he already dug? How many more did he have to dig? He could not remember, lost in the rhythm of his work. This was too important to conduct the rift for. This should not be easy.

The Vows

“The vows?” Argen looked to the elder.

“A Cavalier takes four vows: To protect the lands of men, to stand vigilant against chaos, to safeguard the secrets of the rift, and to seek balance in all things,” Steven replied, brushing dust from his coat.

“But, Cavaliers are good.” The younger mused.

“Many people see us as such. To some we are a thorn in the foot. We seek only balance, justice and peace. It is not about good or evil,” a smile dawned on Steven’s face.

Argen considered his master’s words as they rode. Becoming a Cavalier was not easy.

The Unconscious

Leaves fell lightly from surrounding trees. Branches creaked against the pressure of the wind, and rain drove into his face. He was soaked, cold, and exhausted. Pennyroyal whickered softly, casting rain out of her mane. Argen pulled the unconscious girl down off Pennyroyal’s back, and leaned her against a tree. Standing, he conducted a dome of milky green covering them, keeping off the rain. He turned, and a fire sprang into being beneath the small hole in the dome. It burned violet, fueled by the rift. It was time to rest, warm up and once the girl awakened, get answers.

The Mint

It was an old road, long traveled by farmers and traders, linking two nameless villages which likely hadn’t seen a tax collector in generations. Trees rose to each side, not so thick as to block all of the sun, but thick enough that animals were seen fleetingly. The smell of green and dust were thick in the air, though it was still. Pulling a lozenge from her pouch, she popped it into her mouth. Mint candies were her favorite, and the trader in the last village had a small store. She shook her head. Supplies seemed thin everywhere this year.

The Lighthouse

The lone island was rose from the sea like a spire and jaggedly ended. The lighthouse atop the rock was well-worn whitestone, having lost its sheen years ago. The salt breeze carried sea-birds on currents as they circled the island watching the soft breakers for fish. From the top of the lighthouse, one could see for leagues. Ships passed in and out of the harbor of Dianfinna. The West was soft, but they had marshaled in the past. Cloak swishing as he turned, he began his decent of the tower, his audience with the Regent was in a few hours.

The Pass

Dawn broke through the craggy pass. Streaming down from the high mountain plateau, the light illuminated the multicolored layers of rock which flanked the carved path. Far below, the plains were interspersed with copses of trees, and a river ran away from the mountains, to the southeast, towards the rift. Blinking his eyes, he threw open his bedroll, stood and straightened his coat. The wind, not howling as it did through the night, was still forceful and constant. Coat flapping behind him, he took some bread and cheese from his pack. Another long day of climbing was ahead of him.

The Sorcerer

Rosalyn could barely feel her teeth clench. The pain was incomprehensible; every muscle was taut as bowstring, but she was silent. Her hands were bound to her feet; she was suspended in air. Sweat beaded on her bare skin, despite the cold. Her red hair hung limp, soaked, in the silence of the stone chamber. Her mind was clouded by pain and panic. The sorcerer, in fine midnight blue clothes, worked with thread-of-silver, inspected her. Pausing, he looked into her eyes, and pointed a finger suddenly wreathed in violet flame. Agony exploded throughout her body, amplified by sorcery. She screamed.

The Monument

He wore fine white robes, the finest clothes he ever owned. Like so much else, they had been a gift. The twin revolvers hung at his waist, well polished. His head bowed. He felt ill with grief. The cairn was finished earlier today. It had taken him days; the stone was wrought from the rift, enchanted to stand outside of time. This monument to his mentor, to his friend, would stand forever, so long as the rift persisted. Storm clouds gathered overhead, and a calm radiated from the shrine. He knelt, placed his gentle hand on the headstone, and wept.

The Ritual

A quick snap of the wrist opened the cylinder; shells dropped out as he tipped it back and spun the chamber. After checking the shells, He dabbed oil onto a rag, and wiped the gun down, working dirt from the elaborate engravings. Steven completed the ritual, working the brush through the barrel fifty times; a hundred on days he fired. Replacing the revolver in its holster, he drew its twin and began the ritual anew. Every evening, his routine soothed him; the smooth motion of cloth on metal, the soft sound of the brush in the barrel. It was peace.

The Charges

Touching the rift, tendrils of power coruscated into Argen. Steven had explained: there were three charges. Azure was neutral; it felt cool, calm, like a verdant natural fountainhead. It saturated all things, even the other facets of the rift. Gold was positive; it felt warm, bright, like the sun on his face or the smell of home. Crimson was negative, it was venomous rage, an avalanche rushing through his veins. The neutrality permeating gold and crimson lent them a degree of control, coloring them violet and emerald to untrained eyes. Conducting pure charged rift was extremely dangerous, and extraordinarily difficult.

The Workshop

The Artificers stone tower was inviting, worn and well used. Light streamed in one of the many windows, glinting off mechanical projects covering a number of oddly shaped tables. The smell of hot metal combined with sawed wood reminded her of her village. She sat near the door, as several apprentice artificers tended to their ventures. Their clothes were covered by stained leather aprons.

A man in a green robe, his hair cut short with gray at the temples approached, “Rosalyn DuMont? You have a request for the Artificers? We will see you now.”

He motioned for her to follow.

The Baths

Unnatural lethargy permeated him. It was not simple tiredness, but slowness as well, a release of tension. The herbal drink before entering saw to that. Two women in robes massaged him, running their dark lacquered nails across his skin. He relaxed, feeling calmness ripple through him, visualizing stress and anxiety draining away. The soft cotton robe in which he was wrapped had been heated, and was just damp enough as he donned it from mists of the bathhouse. It had been a long time since he had been to an Elendri Bathhouse. He very well may never see one again.

The Inferno

Flames licked her legs through her skirts. The house was engulfed; collapsing timbers shook the entire structure. Her vision shimmered from the heat as she searched. Rosalyn’s calls to the child were stifled by the intensity of the crackling and the building’s shifting groans. She had dumped the bucket of water over herself before entering, but the only water remaining in her clothes now was her own sweat. Why had the child fled from her? Had she seen something? Did she know something of Rosalyn’s role in the Prince’s death? Why would the rift-cursed waif run into a burning building?

The Camp

They were children. Some of them might have been nearing forty, but they had never seen even a skirmish. The rift had been silent for too long, they had gone soft. A soft riftlander was still a riftlander, not so soft as those shielded from chaos as in the west. Most of the troops had arms and armor from their lord’s cache, leather and mail. Their weapons were worn, but well kept. The knights, mounted in heavy plate and mail, mingled with footmen of their house. Steven sighed. A great many of these men and women would not see tomorrow.

The Hall of Solace

Small blue, green and purple tiles made the three interlaced helixes of the Cavaliers on the floor. The entry chamber to the Hall of Solace was cavernous, walls of ivory stone polished to a fine shine. A few servants in helix-accented livery went about their duties, tending plants and tapestries, echoing steps the only disturbance to the silent peace.

A young woman clad in a simple purple approached Anya, “Welcome to the Hall of Solace. What do you seek?”

Anya’s reply was hard, “I wish to speak with the First.”

The young woman’s eyes looked sad, “The First is dead.”

The Alleyway

Her sleek red dress, slashed with black, billowed as she spun. She had ducked into the dingy town alleyway, flanked by stout wooden businesses, to avoid attention. The slender blade slipped in below the breastbone, upward, preventing any screaming. With a twist, she pulled it free. Blood gushed out in strong pulses, and he looked up at her with a stupidly shocked expression. She cleaned the stiletto on the man’s cloak, and replaced it in the sheath in her sleeve, strapped to her forearm. Her close red curls bounced as she shook off the dangerous sharpness in her grey eyes.

The Garden

Iridiscent lightflies flickered about the courtyard as evening set in. High arches led up to the overlooking walkway balcony, allowing others to enjoy the garden from above. Herbs and flowers were cultivated here not only for beauty, but also for medicine. The scent of damp soil and aromatic blossoms filled the air. Colors flourished; hundreds of tones and shades, as palace gardeners moved through them in stark livery. The lamplight did not do the garden justice. Anya rested, tending to her embroidery hoop, a hint of disappointment surrounding her. Bells were still tolling in the distance. The Prince was dead.

The Breaking Point

Like a clockspring wound too tight, something snapped. He could hear the shattering in his mind; feel shards of broken idealism tearing at his consciousness. He was overwhelmed by a cold chill, but he wrapped himself in it: cold, empty, focused, enduring. Nobody cared anymore about Argen the boy. They did not care about him, only what he could do. They only cared about Argen the tool, Argen the Cavalier, the First among Equals. He stood straight, black coat rippling, fingering his revolver, the gift from Steven: Steven had cared. There was no going back, he could only move forward.

The Rally Point

The old bark was rough, easing his ascent. His dull coat and breeches blended with the colors of the leaves, but the gusting wind left him wishing for a cloak. Sticky sap clung to his hands, adding sweetness to his unwashed odor. The only tree for leagues, he crept as high as the thin upper branches allowed. Scanning the horizon, the autumnal landscape held only sparse farmhouses and fallow, harvested fields. He was close enough to the rally point to see others arriving. Turning the revolver over in his hands, he sat and leaned back against the trunk to wait.

The Thicket

The stream babbled, cutting a shallow gully through the sparse thicket. Anya dismounted and smoothed her green dress, near black, embroidered up the sleeves with the forked lightning of her house. Her grizzled guardsmen and simple country maids dismounted and began building a fire to make tea for lunch. The sky was clouded, and a sparse mist hung in the gully, but this thicket reminded her of her estate to the east. Her family produced lumber, wool, and ale since being raised to nobility. Her parents had mismanaged and squandered the family’s power, but she intended to reclaim her birthright.

The Van

He sighted down the long barrel of his rifle. He fired; an oncoming captain tumbled from horseback. Outnumbered as they were, thinning the disciplined officers was necessary. Working the lever, his years of experience and training took over: sight, fire, reload. Rapid shots cracked as the enemy closed. Ten more officers fell. Steven slid the discharged weapon into the rifle boot buckled to the saddle. At his signal, the line rushed forward, gathering into a wedge. Leading the van, flanked by hornblower and bannerman, Steven’s cloak flapped behind him. He stood in the stirrups, arms extended, elegant, engraved revolvers thundering.

The Conductor

Steven stood shock still, gaping in terror towards the keep. For him to sense it at this distance, a tremendous quantity of rift energy was being drawn in the keep. Nobody living could conduct so much without disastrous results. He spurred Morningglory onward, rushing towards the keep. His long coat streamed behind him, his wide-brimmed hat bouncing, held by the cord across his neck. Dread filled him as he passed the walls of the keep, the power showed no signs of abating. No matter who or what the source, it was likely the most dangerous thing Steven had ever encountered.

The Shattering

Argen had exhausted every defensive stance. Edric was an excellent, relentless duelist, possessed of significantly more training and speed than Argen. He was not burdened by fear, exhaustion and several wounds as was Argen. Edric swept in for a killing blow and was… pulped; his remains creating a shower of gore. Argen’s confusion was overruled by a new internal struggle. Energies surged through him, contained only through force of will. There had been a sense of shattering, then the raging, chaotic power rushed in. Argen knew if he did not release it, he might suffer the same fate as Edric.

The Visions

She braced herself on the table, heaving with the intensity of the shock. Several townspeople looked at her askance. The merchant whose stall table she leaned on shot her a disparaging look, as if she were drunk. She flashed a smile and curtseyed, flashing her leg through the slit in the side of the blue woolen dress. Choosing a few fruits at random, she paid the man and stalked into the crowded market. As best she could tell, no time passed during her visions, though they often seemed to stretch for hours. They were becoming more than strange and inconvenient.

The Flesh

A line seared across his vision. He felt warm, wet blood running down his face, and the smell of burning flesh permeated everything. He had been hurled a dozen paces from where he had stood. Smoke wafted from his ruined clothes. The Cavalier approached him and knelt. Argen could just make out the older man.

“Be still. This is never pleasant,” the Cavalier growled.

Argen tensed to the point of breaking as the energies flowed into him, reshaping his flesh, wiping away his injuries. He did not realize he was screaming, interrupted only for ragged breaths, until it was done.

The Road

The road to Alanafel stretched ahead of her, cutting through rolling low hills covered by new wildgrass and flowers. The grey sky relinquished cool breezes. It looked like it might rain. Both her good wool cloak and her plain grey dress were solid, fit for travel. A pack containing food, supplies, bedroll and clothes was strapped to her back, and an old rake handle served as a walking stick. Until today, she had never traveled farther from home than Ventin, where father had sold their produce and wool. She may be mad, but she wanted to know who killed father.

The Inn

The common room was any of a thousand across the Riftlands, the split log walls sealed by plaster, a heavy bar next to the door. A platform in the corner elevated a musician playing fiddle, somewhat drowned out by raucous laughs and boasts from the patrons. Farmers, goodwives, and young unmarried filled the benches and four long tables. She approached the plump, vigilant proprietor, behind the bar between kitchen and common. Opening her cloak to show her dress made it plain she could pay. Rosalyn inquired after a room while scanning the crowd. With luck, nobody had followed from Alanafel.

The Hall

The blade sprang into his hands, emanating soft radiance, crackling with energy. The dancing blue light lit the dark corridor, making the red runner seem a shifting purple. The smell of recently extinguished lamps made it likely his target had fled this way. He did not need the blade, the energy coruscating in him made little light enough to see by, but with the rift wrought blade it was bright. He started down the hall, calm and collected. Argen had watched too many men die by the Rift-lord’s hand, the sorcerer’s hand. Whatever he was, he was still a man.

The Temple

Sunlight streamed in through the tall, thin windows, set off from the deep shadows by smoking incense. The altar was carved from white marble, and the benches that filled the temple were polished slabs of the same. The floor lacked the glossy polish, but was cut from similar black stone. A choir sang nearby, men and women of the faith raising their voices in tribute. Steven sat, legs-crossed, before the altar. His long duster was tossed across a bench, his hat nearby. His weapons were left at the entrance. He was no longer young, but the Rift would still obey.

The Sewer

The smell was unbearable. Ankle deep in filth, he trudged through the pipe. His body burned form the beatings. The pitch dark engulfed him, like in his cell. The muck bubbling and rushing underfoot drowned out all sound. Unconsciously, his hand touched his sword’s hilt. The girl who freed him brought sewer plans, some rough clothes, and his sword. He had to repay her somehow. They were to meet at an inn in the foreign quarter. He worked through the pipes guided by moments of referencing the plans. He hoped those plans were not altered when these sewers were built.

The Night

The horizon glowed with the hues of the Rift, blues, greens and purples of every vibrant shade. She lay on her back, peering up at the clouds which obscured the stars. The colors danced among them. Ever-present, the Rift had been docile her whole life. The long, soft grass beneath her held the scent of home. Adjusting her white linen blouse and straightening her plaid skirts, she stood. Life on the farm was simple; difficult, but satisfying. She turned towards the cottage, her ear catching an oath and metallic clatter. If Father burned himself cooking again, she had choice words.

The Bulwark

A map lay on the table, held by glass weights. Steven traced a line from the Rift to the bulwark. The Lord-Captain of Alandren, Alaric, stood opposite, clad in mail. Steven made strange contrast; Cavaliers did not wear armor.

“How many?” Steven sighed.

“At least a hundred thousand,” Alaric shook his head.

“You scouts are sure?” Steven met the younger man’s gaze. Alaric nodded. A hundred thousand riftspawn; twenty thousand men at the bulwark. “You have sent to the other Riftlands.”

Alaric set his jaw, “Messengers left a week ago. At best, the closest will reach us in two weeks.”

The Lady

The antechamber, wood paneled with fine tapestries and carved furnishings, was stifling. Anya held the silver goblet close, letting the coolness seep in. The wine was iced and refreshing, but strong. She stood, to not sweat through her shift. The Lady Adrenin had made her wait some time, insistent the many windows stay shut, with the curtains open. She suspected the waiting was to put her off guard. The lady suspected she would drink deeply of the chilled strongwine. Anya tempered her patience, and refused to drink. She would learn where the boy was sent without revealing what she knew.

The Cell

The cell, pitch dark, wet and cold, did not leave enough room to stand fully, nor to lie. Argen was forced to sit uncomfortably; his head between his knees. He had been stripped bare and beaten. His welts burned angrily; mottled black and blue must be covering him by now. Voices drifted through the rough iron door, muted and muddled. How long had he been here? When had he been fed last? There was a shuffling beyond the door. The unlocking was defeaning. When a red head of curls poked through blinding light, Argen croaked in wonder, “Who are you?”

The Flight

The pain in his knee was crippling. Steven rolled out from under the mare as she flailed; she had taken a thrown spear in the attack and carried him a mile out of the woods, across the plain, before succumbing. The long grass was cold with dew, his coat streaked with mud. Surprised his leg was not broken, he slowly stood, wobbling on the bad knee. Limping, he retrieved his hat and rifle from where they had fallen. “Earthen-born, to earth we return,” Steven grieved as he put a bullet in the mare’s head. They would not be far behind.

The Wish

The house was small, but comfortable. Fresh baked bread sat on the table and a fire crackled in the hearth. Mother kept everything tidy. He could barely recall his father’s face; he remembered the day Uncle Din brought back his father’s sword. He laid on the soft, woven rug, looking up, admiring the long, slightly curved blade, with its angled, heavy cross-guards and two-handed grip. He was excited to see the city, but apprehensive about being sent to learn with Din. It was his father’s dying wish that he become a swordsman, and Uncle Din meant to enforce that wish.

The Bedchamber

The curtains rustled in the summer breeze. The prince laid asleep, taking shallow breaths. Rosalyn slid from bed onto light feet, as to not disturb him. Sweat beads, scintillating diamonds on milky white skin, flashed when she crossed the moonlight to her dress. With care and haste, she donned slip then dress, silently buttoning up her back. Catching her flushed features in a mirror, she smoothed her unruly hair of time spent in bed. Once out the servant’s entrance, she smiled. The slow poison was deadly; there was no antidote, no signs. The prince would be dead inside a month.

The Rift

There was no sky, no ground, yet he did not fall.  There was firmness below his feet, but just by thinking about it, he seemed to sink; looking up, he reached above him, and he rose slightly.  The Rift was chilly and thick, like after spring rain.  Blue, purple, red, and green, eddied throughout the rift around and through him.  An ethereal hum permeated everything, he felt poised as a crystal about to shatter from resonance.  It made him young, fearless, enthralled, virile, alive.  Steven set his jaw, and drew his revolver.  This was the domain of the Rift lords.

The Mire

Bent, burdened trees choked the light filtering into the swamp; an uneasy foul mist hovered menacingly over the lagoons.  The stench was undeniable, released by sporadic bubbles on the surface of the viscous pools.  There was no path; only rabbit runs between the brush and hoof prints in the mud.  A shack occupied one small tract jutting into one of the foul pools, thick smoke issuing from the crooked chimney only intensifying the filth of the mire.  A soft song rose from the shack, haunting the environs with its raspy, intoxicating croon.  Nobody visited Grandmother Nass unless they had to.

The Cavalier

Translucent skin stretched thin across the back of his hand as he clutched the message. The paper was worn, but the seal had been unbroken; the letter had been cared for on its long journey. Steven stood slowly, his robes ghosting his frailty as he poured more wine. Rebellion had broken out in the Riftlands; the bulwark was in danger. There were few Cavaliers left. The last rift-war had been costly. Steven eyed the unadorned lever-action rifle, his eternal companion. He was a tired, pale reflection of the Hero of the Hinterlands, but there was no other Cavalier to go.

The Swordsman

Argen, wrapped in cold calm, tightened his grip.  Blood trickled down his face through sweat-matted hair.  Argen’s coat was slashed in places, and wet red patches slowly grew.  Three men lay dying already.  The last brigand rushed, bellowing a bestial growl, cudgel raised.  Argen rolled to the side. The man pivoted to correct, but the curved blade opened him across the belly as cudgel crashed down on Argen’s shoulder.  Calm exploded with pain, as he rose to survey the fallen.  Stiffly, he cleaned his blade, replacing it at his hip.  There were more brigands than ever this year.  Why?

The River

The early morning fog rolled across the river, slicking her red curls to her head.  Standing ahead of where the fields gave to the rocky bank, grass pricked her feet.  Calm, quiet bubbling rode the flow into the loch.  Her skirts, tartan red and black, gently bounced from her knees as strode across the bank.  She shivered as she stepped into the water, letting her skirt drop.  Working the dirt from her hands, careful not to dirty her bleached woolen blouse, grey eyes looked to the green rolling hills beyond.  The farm had not been right since her father died.

The Quest

The lethargic, sandy breeze rustled through the sparse weeds and stunted shrubs.  On the horizon, the sun was cloaked by dusk’s scarlet, purple and orange.  The heat of the day faded; he paid it no notice, green eyes fixed on the mountain rising like a dagger from the arid plain.  His loose robes, dusty brown like everything else, kept the heat at bay and shielded him from cold darkness.  His cracked, dry lips parted for a moment as he raised his water-skin.  The lukewarm fluid soothed his thirst.  The mountain beckoned.  Fingering his revolver, he could not forget his vows.

The Ball

Music filled the gilded hall. Servants bustled about carrying trays, weaving through the nobility.  Dresses in silk and samite, accented by jewelry, glided across the dance floor.  The men, stiff in high-necked, long coats displaying their house colors, provided severe contrast to the willowy grace of the women.  The Shandra was an intricate dance, only known in Alandren, and then only by the blood.  It served, among other things, to establish status.  Anya entered, poorly dressed next to any but the servants, ready to prove her blood.  The steps came easily.  The difficulty was the prince, and his young heart.

The City

Wisps of foul mist floated, visible in the thin shaft of sickly light filtering from a flickering gas-lamp.  She stared into the puddle, fresh rain already tainted with myriad colors slicking the surface.  Close to her breast she clutched her damp, dirty, once-grey dress, to retain a bit of warmth. The face that stared back through ripples was drawn; cheeks marked with filth, the hair tangled, infused with the eternal smog.  It was a face unremembered.  Soot and smoke choked the air; the train rumbled uncaring along elevated rails, steady sounds of metal on metal drowning her muted, wretched whimpers.