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.