It's been nearly a year since I posted here, so perhaps it's time to start up again. I was trying to blog once a week, and that got overwhelming, so I just gave up. One or two posts a month will be my goal for now.
So here's the first chapter of something I'm working on. My working title for this is Everborn
.
The sound of the downpour drowns
out all other noise as Raine tucks the squirming newborn under his cloak and sprints
through the streets. I chose this place,
this desert, to be safe. Why would it rain tonight of all nights? As Raine
pushes past pedestrians seeking shelter, electricity snaps in the air, a minion
gathering power from the moisture. Instinctively, Raine looks back. He finds the
minion in the light streaming from an inn window, yet it somehow remains in
shadow and barely discernible. Raine can only make it out because the drops do
not touch it.
Raine
races through muddy puddles and sodden horse manure, his beautiful new boots
forever ruined. All this for a bloody
girl, he thinks. I should just leave
her to the minion. Thalen will reincarnate in nine months as a proper boy. But
centuries of protecting this soul will not allow Raine to leave Thalen to the
minion. He cannot allow its master, the numaelon
Oren, to win yet again.
With
another look behind him, Raine sees the shadowy figure melt away, leaving in
its place a distraught peasant woman. Raine knows this trick. The minion, in
the guise of an innocent victim, will gain support from the local law
enforcement to slow Raine down. In this sense, the storm is on Raine’s side. It
will take Vastaria’s knights longer to rally in response to whatever story the
minion tells them.
Best be safe, Raine thinks, conjuring a
cloaking spell to make the baby girl appear as a basket of fruit. He shivers as
the magic draws warmth from his body. In this weather, with precious little
heat to draw from, he can’t change his own appearance, as well, or he’ll
freeze.
Raine
keeps moving, going for speed and distance rather than stealth, since the
minion can see well in the shadows and moves with a speed Raine hasn’t seen in
two hundred years. Water is the numaelon’s
element, giving him and his puppet the advantage in this desert kingdom which usually
favors Raine’s heat-based magic. As he runs, Raine wonders if the numaelon’s power has increased so much. Could
Oren have created this storm? Could he draw enough power to control more than
one minion?
The
basket of fruit cries out. Raine holds it tightly to him, cradling it against
his chest. A tiny lemon paws at him as an apple roots around attempting to
nurse. The poor child, barely minutes from her mother’s womb, might never know
the satisfaction of her first meal.
Raine
stops under an awning to catch his breath. Sustaining the cloaking spell on the
child has sapped his body heat, and he feels his joints stiffening. No amount
of training can prepare him to run far and fast with frozen muscles, so he lessens
the spell, the top of the infant’s head now visible, along with ten tiny
fingers.
In
front of him, a second minion steps out of the gale. This storm has indeed made
the numaelon a powerful master, allowing
Oren to control two of his marked souls. Raine sees through the creature’s
human disguise, recognizing the tell-tale bluish hue of the woman’s face. She
lunges for the fruit basket, covering the few yards in two long steps. Raine
pulls away and runs, his boots and cloak soaked, his icy leg muscles brittle. The
minion woman gathers the raindrops around her, and thrusts a swarming wave at
Raine. He stumbles at it hits him in the back, but adrenaline keeps him
upright. He can’t lose this soul again.
In
the town square, he sees the lights. Covered torches. Fire, heat, power. He
runs toward them, but thinks better of it. The torches’ meager heat will not be
enough.
He
turns again, down a dark alley that will lead him into the canyon where he has
a chance to disappear. If he can hide long enough, wait out the storm, the
desert heat will return, bringing with it his power and his advantage. He must
only endure the night.
Raine
hurries through the alley, a river of a road. Rats leap from his path as his
boots propel the sheet of water covering the dirt street, the packed soil too
dry to absorb it. Raine sees the edge of the canyon in the distance through the
alley’s end, and hope soars in his chest. He can escape with Thalen.
A
wall of water rises up, filling the alley and blocking his way. Around Raine’s
ankles, the puddles swirl, gather, and envelop his legs. He turns, his only
option to retrace his steps and head back toward town, but his path is blocked
that way, as well, by a small, unimposing man.
But
Raine knows Oren, the numaelon, in
any guise.
He’s come here? Himself? To kill an infant? A
girl? Oren has always sent minions after the children, only involving
himself when Thalen’s current body managed to reach adolescence and became a
true threat. Why is he here now?
The
water freezes around Raine’s legs, stopping him, and the liquid wall behind him
swirls, encasing him in a flood. An eerie underwater silence surrounds him, and
his cloak and long hair rise with the weightlessness of submersion. Raine can’t
die, but the child he holds will certainly drown. He thrusts the fruit basket
beyond his wet cage and into the open air, holding it at arm’s length, and releases
the spell. The wailing fruit melts away, revealing the crying child.
Oren
strides forward and plucks the girl from Raine’s outstretched arms. He won’t
kill her. Not yet. Oren will need time to prepare the enchantments that mask Thalen’s
reincarnation from Raine, to hinder his ability to find and protect his
friend’s latest form. That requires water, more than a storm. Oren can win this
battle, but Raine will still have time to save the girl.
Raine
fights the urge to breathe within his prison. Even though he doesn’t
necessarily need air, he’s never shaken the habit of breathing during his
centuries as an immortal, and his body is accustomed to a steady flow of oxygen.
At this moment, his panicking mind hits him with a thought. Thalen has never occupied a female body
before. There is something about a girl that threatens Oren enough for him to
come and destroy her himself.
Raine
draws on what little body heat he has left, weakening the ice binding his legs.
If he can just break through his frozen chains, he can push through the water cell
with physical strength alone.
He
breaks one leg free and focuses his attention on the other. The top of his boot
is frozen to his trouser leg, and he strains as he pries them apart. Finally,
he’s able to pull his foot out of the boot, leaving it frozen to the street,
and falls, exhausted, out into the open air. Splashing onto his hands and knees,
Raine can’t help sucking in breath, the sounds of the storm assaulting his ears
once more. He forces himself to stand and uses the side of a building to push his
stiff body forward. Between his staggering and his one bare foot, he looks
drunk, but he doesn’t care. He won’t let Oren get away with the child, with his
friend’s soul. Raine will end this now.
Emerging
from the alley, he sees Oren striding toward the east gate of the city wall, a
knight blocking his path several feet ahead. Not a knight, a Queensman, as
indicated by his silver sword belt, trained to defend the kingdom from the
supernatural. Stance wide, hand near his sword, the Queensman intends to fight.
Raine considers shouting, warning the fool to stand aside, but killing the
Queensman will slow Oren down and allow Raine a chance to recover the child. It’s the knight’s duty to die for the realm,
isn’t it? And this child could be the key to ridding the realm, and the world,
of Oren forever. Raine can allow that sacrifice, but it will be in vain if
Oren escapes with Thalen.
The
stone arch of the gate protects four burning torches. They flicker in the wind,
but it’s fire, heat. It’s not enough, but Raine must try. He calls on every muscle
to burst into action. Lunging forward, he forces his legs to move, every agonizing
step a victory, toward Oren, toward Thalen, toward fire.
The
Queensman unsheathes his iron knife rather than his sword. The man recognizes
Oren as a creature of darkness, but he can’t know his opponent’s true nature. This
Queensman might deal often with minions, but his iron will do little more than
scratch Oren. Still, each second the Queensman occupies the numaelon’s attention is another second
Raine has to reach the child.
Only
yards away now, Raine hurls himself forward as the Queensman swipes the blade
at Oren, who merely laughs at the antics of a man no more threatening than a
monkey with a spoon. But this knight proves a brave and experienced warrior. When
Oren dodges the blade, his chest is open to attack. The Queensman takes
advantage, stepping back and throwing his knife, imbedding it impressively in
Oren’s chest. Raine watches helplessly as the infant splashes to the ground. A
horrifying, silent second passes before the baby howls. She’s still alive, but she can drown in that inch of water.
The
Queensman flings himself over the child, protecting her as Oren pulls the blade
from his chest. In the same instant, Raine finally feels the torches’ warmth. Their
light fails as Raine draws heat from the flames, heat from his body, heat from
the Queensman, but not the child. The man he can sacrifice. He pushes the
spell, and all the heat he’s gathered, straight at Oren.
Vulnerable
from the Queensman’s blade, Oren succumbs to Raine’s banishing spell,
dissolving into the storm. Raine has no idea where he’s sent Oren, but the
minions will pose no more threat. For now.
Cold, exhaustion,
and relief overtake Raine. He falls to the ground and drags himself toward the wailing
baby, keeping his face above the shallow flood. The child lies face up, the Queensman’s
frozen arm slung over her.
Raine
doesn’t have much time to prevent the infant from drowning before losing
consciousness. He pulls the knight’s arm off of her, hearing the Queensman
groan. He’s not dead. Yet. Raine can’t help but be impressed as he pulls the
baby out of the water and rolls onto his back, laying the child on his chest
and covering her with his cloak. He can only hope someone finds them before she
freezes against his cold body.
*****
Raine
feels the baby’s weight lifted off him and strong arms grasping his limbs. Has
it been seconds? Hours? He can’t wake, can’t protest, but he keeps hold of his
connection with Thalen. As Raine feels himself tucked into soft blankets, he
knows Thalen is safe.
Daylight
assaults his eyes when Raine opens them. He turns toward a noise, startling a
round serving girl who runs from the room. Raine tries to call after her, but
his voice comes out a croak.
Raine
is naked under the heavy pile of blankets. Heat radiates from hot water bottles
against his skin. He can tell by the servant, the linens, and his medical care
that he occupies a room in a rich house. The high windows and intricately
carved furniture confirm his assumption.
Closing
his eyes, Raine searches for Thalen’s presence and finds it nearby and in no
danger. Satisfied, he nestles into the bed and enjoys the warmth, drawing just
enough to heal his more annoying body aches and relieve the wooziness in his
head. He could sleep for days here, and now that Thalen is safe, Raine hopes he
can. All too soon he’ll have to take Thalen, in his baby girl form, and find
the answers to last night’s questions before Oren comes after Thalen again. What
about a female child threatens Oren? And how can Raine and Thalen use that
knowledge to defeat him for good? Raine would rather not take the baby with
him, though, and wonders what price would convince the master of this house to
take her as a ward.
The
door opens and two knights enter, followed by an auburn-haired woman in a tight-fitting
gown of rich green silk. Raine pulls his eyes away from her amply displayed
cleavage, as she is clearly as important as she is attractive. He looks again
at the knights, their woolen tunics emblazoned with a serpent coiled around her
eggs. The ironic insignia of Nystra, Vastaria’s barren queen.
“Your
Majesty,” Raine stutters, sitting upright. He’s seen her once before. She’d been
only five at the time, and has since grown into a graceful woman with a
dangerously beautiful face.
“Remain
in bed,” Nystra says. “I know you’re not dressed.”
Raine
stays sitting, but pulls a blanket up to cover his chest.
“How
did you survive?” Nystra demands. “Your limbs were frozen through.”
Raine
has heard about the queen’s detached manner, but her bluntness still surprises
him. It’s more difficult to distract such a personality from a straight answer,
but Raine has to try, since he doesn’t have a decent explanation for his
survival other than the truth. “Does my recovery anger you?”
“To
be honest, it complicates matters.” She ignores Raine’s confused look and continues,
“Sir Roderick says you fought a minion alongside him to protect an infant. Who
is the child?”
Raine
allows her to believe Oren was a minion. “The child is my daughter,” he lies. “Is
she safe?”
“She’s
bumped and bruised, but keeping her wet nurse busy, so we’re confident she’ll
be fine. Yet, you can’t be more than sixteen. A father? Are you married?”
Raine
feigns a shamed expression. “No, Your Grace. Felice and I wanted to marry, but
her father wouldn’t allow it. We decided to wait until the baby came, then run
away as a family.”
“And
how did you come to be involved with a minion?”
“Felice’s
father summoned it. We ran, but it found us while she labored.” Raine conjures tears
for this woman he didn’t know, a pregnant widow whom he’d directed Thalen’s
essence into and watched from afar. He now veers his story toward the truth. “She
had twins. The minion killed my son and Felice, but the midwife cut my daughter
out while I fought the creature. I grabbed my baby and ran.”
One
of the knights answers a knock at the door, and a woman carries in a bundle of
blankets. Silver-blond hair peeks out the top. Thalen. The woman looks
longingly at the baby as she hands her to Raine.
“You
do not intend to raise this baby, do you?” Nystra asks.
Though
an abrupt question, Raine hopes the queen will suggest fostering the child. Yet,
Raine must play a distraught father and grieving lover. “She’s my daughter.” He
bounces her in his arms. “All I have left of her mother. Of course I intend to
raise her.”
“What
is your livelihood?” Nystra asks. “How will you provide for a child when you’re
a child yourself?”
“I’ll
do my best, Majesty. That’s all I can do.”
“I
have a proposition, although I cannot offer it tastefully. This is my sister
Lesene.” Nystra gestures to the woman. “She’s serving as your daughter’s wet
nurse. Lesene has milk because she gave birth to a daughter one week ago, but
Inara arrived too early and sadly passed away the night before last. But now we
have a baby girl, practically orphaned, to take her place.”
Raine
conceals a smile. In fourteen or fifteen years, he’ll have to regain access to
the palace, but he couldn’t have asked for a better arrangement. He puts on a
shocked expression. “Are you
suggesting…” He fills his eyes with tears. “I couldn’t. She’s all I have.”
“You’re all she has, but you’re not enough. She could be raised here, a
princess, heir to the Vastarian throne. Only a select few know about the death
of my niece and adopted heir. Your daughter would slip right into her place.”
Raine
stares at Nystra, legitimately surprised. The heir? That complicates his plans.
A ward he can steal away again, but a princess? He pulls the baby’s blanket
away to reveal Thalen’s silver-blond hair, which appears in all his
incarnations. “No one will believe she’s Vastarian.”
“We’ll
say the princess’s hair is a sign from the Great One.”
Raine
recalls one of Thalen’s previous lives when that
didn’t work out well at all. Even so, Nystra’s proposition mostly suits Raine’s
purposes.
The
queen continues, “Vastaria is in need of both inspiration and an heir. Last
night’s storm swept away countless homes, claimed countless lives. As my people
rebuild, this sign will raise their spirits.”
“She’ll
be a princess?” Raine asks.
“She’ll
be my own niece,” Nystra sits on the bed, placing a hand on the soft swaddling
blanket. “Lesene will raise her here in the palace. She will be loved,
educated, and provided for.
Raine
cradles the baby. He looks conflicted as he thinks. He can’t stay here, and
hopes the queen won’t insist. After about three years, people notice he doesn’t
age. Plus, he has to figure out what has Oren so scared. He must have prepared
that attack for a century, storing up power. To spend it here, now. Raine can’t
ignore the significance.
“I
hate to leave her,” he says, “but she’d be better off. I don’t think I can
stay, though. It would be too painful.”
“It’s for the best
that she stay and you go,” Nystra says to Raine’s relief. “But if you try to
reveal this deception, you’ll both be executed.”
Raine nods his
assent. “Her name is Felice,” he insists.
“Inara Felice.”
Nystra takes the baby and kisses her head. “Princess and heir.”
And Oren’s bane, Raine thinks.
