Ashborne: The First Chronicle

PROLOGUE

Where were the bones? Kaije clawed through the dirt and knee-high weeds. The sun scorched his skin and burrowed into him, stealing his energy. Each day, for the past four days, he had been here, on his knees, searching for his salvation. He couldn’t give up. As he had each night before, he would continue hunting—by the pale shadow of moonlight if necessary.

Thick, black soil covered his hands and blanketed his arms. It had taken up residence in the tiny creases of his face, and his head itched from the specks that had burrowed into his dark, wiry hair. The current ditch he was exploring contained small pebbles, weeds, and an endless supply of clumpy soil—but no bones.

He stood up with a grunt and brushed the dirt from his knees. Lifting the almost empty water skin to his cracked lips, he squeezed the last of the tepid drops into his mouth. The stench of soil and sweat filled his nostrils and he fought the urge to gag as he sipped. When it was empty, he tossed it aside and began digging again.

Over the next few hours, thoughts and images of her burst into his mind. Her short brown hair in disarray . . . her pale violet eyes full of determination . . . her frail and broken body.

STOP! he screamed. His mind ignored the command and continued rambling. The small smile that pierced his heart and melted away the cares of this rugged world . . . her soft musical voice that made his heart want to dance for its sweet purity . . . those silent tears she tried so valiantly to hide.

He scraped through the sorrowful musings. When he could dig no further, he set aside the spade and began to clear the ditch. As he reached in to gather the loose mound of dirt, his raw knuckles began bleeding again. Most of his fingernails had ripped off during his second day of digging and, try as he might, he could not make himself numb to the pain. He gritted his teeth and sank his fingers deep into the soil. Something snagged the cloth he had wrapped around his hands. In his excitement, he began flinging dirt everywhere and within a few moments, he spied the tips of several long bones.

He stopped for a moment to wrap his renewed hope with caution before proceeding. There were hundreds of corpses buried in this valley. This might not be the end of his search. Nevertheless, he could hope. The location was right. His hands trembled. His breath came in quick, gulping gasps. Speck by speck he uncovered what lay beneath the old clumped earth in this shallow grave. Finally, he saw what he was looking for. He had found the bones.

CHAPTER ONE

Joelle pried the woman’s jaws open and thrust the leather strap into her mouth, then fastened it behind her neck. She shivered involuntarily when her fingers brushed against the woman’s clammy skin. A sleeping draught had already been administered, but Joelle had no idea how much pain the woman would feel and having the bite-strap in place allowed her to continue uninterrupted for as long as necessary. The woman. As if Joelle didn’t know her. As if by casting away childhood memories, she could drown out the pain. As if by refusing to acknowledge her name, Joelle could minimize the woman’s life when it ended. And the spirit? Joelle shook her head. No time for that and she could not continue refusing to acknowledge the woman.

Perra, you must try to relax. Joelle checked the straps securing Perra’s arms and legs to the moss-covered table. She softened her voice, Faith, Perra. Hold fast. The words, spoken without conviction, tasted bitter.

Perra grunted. Her bare shoulders arched off the table. Fear gripped her and her eyes strained upward, darting around, searching for salvation within the cracks of the stones above her. Joelle grasped her hand. Breathe. Joelle took a deep breath. In and out. She stroked Perra’s forehead, whispering soothing words, teaching the woman breathing exercises until her breathing became rhythmic, and her eyelids closed.

Joelle clenched her teeth together. Somewhere, buried deep, a prayer scuttled around searching for escape. It didn’t succeed and her calm façade threatened to shatter. Anger and frustration fought each other for dominance in her heart and it didn’t really matter who won. Both were too powerful for her to overcome and as long as either one remained in control, she could not reach Alequan, the only one who could help the woman lying before her now.

Joelle lowered the lance and stabbed, beginning the work for which she had trained. Perra’s eyes flew open and something between a muffled shriek and a sob escaped her lips. Joelle averted her gaze and continued working. She ignored the muffled screams. One by one, she pierced the boils covering Perra’s body. At some point, her patient passed out and the screams thankfully stopped.

It took hours. Joelle concentrated on breathing. Steady, short breaths. The lavender-soaked scarf did little to ease the stench, but it provided a focal point for her. Breathe. Lance. Swab. Breathe. The commands formed a bizarre repetitious dance in her mind. Pray, which should have been included, could not find an opening into the routine. She was too angry to let it in.

Echoes of shouting from somewhere in the temple distracted her and she stabbed the clean skin of Perra’s shoulder. Perra didn’t even twitch. Joelle steadied her hands and pierced another boil. Thick blood oozed out and dripped down onto the moss. Too much blood. Joelle began to worry. After draining the boils on Perra’s neck, torso, and arms, she paused to rest.

She wiped the sweat from her forehead with the sleeve of her robe and wished she had a twig of licorice, but the stench would only have corrupted whatever enjoyment she would have gained from it. She bit her bottom lip instead. The only indication her patient lived was a slight rise and fall of her chest. Patches of waxy, wrinkled skin peeked through the mass of wounds and hundreds of bloody rivulets that snaked across her body.

Perra would not survive the procedure. If Joelle waited for Perra to regain her strength after so much blood loss, whatever disease had caused the boils would remain inside of Perra. It would spread and, in three days’ time, all the work Joelle had performed today would be for naught. Joelle sighed. If only she knew more about the disease. Or she was a trained physician.

She would have to wait. There were just too many boils. Perra’s chance of survival was still slim, but at least it existed. Better to have a little hope than no hope at all, Joelle told herself as she began applying a poultice to seal the open wounds.

The door slammed open. Joelle jumped and dropped the poultice. The resulting crash launched butter-smeared shards across the floor and in some cases, into the stone wall where they exploded again. She yanked the scarf from her face and confronted the intruder.

The man looming in the doorway took one look at Perra and shook his head.

She’s dead, child. Leave her and turn your attention to the living in this town. Where is your Protector?

Strangers in the temple were common enough. Joelle had no reason to feel uneasy, but the hairs on her arms rose under his scrutiny. His robe identified him as a fellow member of the clergy and the pasati medallions circling his waist jingled.

She herself had only two medallions, healer and herbalist, in addition to her official clerical medallions. Morrock had eleven. The man in the doorway had more than she could count woven among what appeared to be all nine threads of material. It wasn’t his voice, or his trappings, that captured her attention though. It was the mud.

Layers of baked mud in his cropped hair made it difficult to determine his natural color, but the brown crevasses drawn across his face hinted at his age. Large patches of soil created shapes and forms on his robe. Joelle, weak from tending Perra, imagined she saw a bear, an acorn, and a fanged fish lunging after the pasati medallions. She placed a hand on the healing table to steady herself.

Are you familiar with this disease? she asked.

Disease? The man snorted. This woman has the plague. If a hundred healers tended her, she will still be dead in two days – if not sooner. Lay her on a comfortable bed, force valerian tea down her throat when she’s awake, and when she sleeps tend to your other duties. In a day, or two, your work is done. His gaze shifted to her pasati. You know this.

Disease is at the root of the plague. I find it hard to believe a servant of Alequan treats life and death so casually. Does she not deserve prayer? Does she not deserve mercy and whatever treatment we can provide?

You provide a treatment? Have you discovered a cure? Across Sarond people die by the thousands. Clerics toil in vain from the Grand Temple to ramshackle huts in the smallest village, desperate for the Creator’s intervention and Alequan himself has intervened on your behalf alone. The remedy given to you in a divine vision, perhaps? He sniffed, then bent down and retrieved one of the broken shards near his foot. Garlic? And onions? Could it be that simple? Quick, empty the pigeon houses. Who knows how many lives we can save? He performed a mock bow. We are all in your debt.

An angry flush crept into Joelle’s cheeks. She clenched her teeth and averted her eyes. Thousands? Alequan have mercy. They would never survive. Gripparre would be but a memory on a soiled and forgotten map discovered centuries later.

Her actions, or Alequan himself, must have given him insight. When he spoke next, his voice had softened. She’s the first? The man shook his head. Forgive me. I have seen the plague destroy entire villages . . . and good friends. You must strengthen yourself. She will not be the last. He walked across the room and stood beside her. A dirty hand reached out and tucked a lock of ebony hair behind Perra’s ear. You knew her? he asked.

Joelle stared in disbelief at the man. She did not want to discuss that with him. She had no desire to share what this woman meant to her; how she had baked honey cakes for Joelle as a child, encouraged her faltering steps, or helped a pair of small hands braid a mourning wreath for her father and soothed her tears. These were her memories, and he had no right to them. She wanted him to leave.

Do you have a petition for the temple? she asked him. Or is there some other justification for your interruption?

His compassion vanished. He turned to face her and the uneasiness she felt previously washed over her anew. Where is your Protector? he asked with an icy tone.

The Protector hears petitions following the midday meal. You may wait in the atrium with the other petitioners for your turn to speak with him. Now, if you will excuse me, I need to finish my work here. Despite your wisdom in matters of pestilence, I will not give up hope on this woman.

The man grabbed her arm and twisted her around. Child, your service is admirable, but you’ve set your sights on the rat when you should be eyeing the wild boar about to charge into your midst. I need your Protector now, not after the midday meal. You can fetch him, or tell me where he is that I might do so. To stand here and let your misguided, albeit altruistic, intentions dictate your actions is placing the rest of your town, including me and my men, in danger. I will ask you one more time, where is your Protector? he growled.

Something in the man’s intensity gave Joelle pause. She pushed her anger aside and slowly unclenched the fists at her side. He was right. She had not heard the watch bells, but if danger threatened Gripparre and she ignored it, whatever lives were lost lay upon her shoulders. She would accomplish nothing standing here arguing with him. If he wanted the Protector, she would gladly oblige him if it meant he would leave her alone.

Joelle jerked her arm away from him and picked her way through the scattered porcelain to reach the servants’ bell. Taking her time, she washed her hands in a small basin and said over her shoulder, Once arrangements have been made to seal this woman’s wounds, and I have changed, I will notify the Protector of your desire to speak with him. She did not bother turning around to see his reaction.

Joelle discovered little more about the stranger as they walked through the stone corridors to the main entrance. Brother Hestormal, answering the Grand Temple’s summons, was bound for Aramas. He offered no more information and she didn’t care enough to pry so they continued in silence while shuffled footsteps rustled like whispers in their wake.

Leaving the corridors behind them, they entered the main temple area and, as always, Joelle heard the fountains before entering the room. A stone pathway, inlaid with detailed marble tiles, led them between two large pools. Spray from hollowed out spears set high into the stones teased them with a light mist as they crossed. Ivy climbed toward the domed ceiling and clothed the spears. Squares of light from high windows highlighted spider lilies and mountain daisies – crimson swimmers swirling in the placid waters. A small group of acolytes bathed while another waited along stone benches for their allotted times. In the center they passed a tiered fountain with orange and yellow flames flickering at the top. The sacred flames. Another, just like this one, stood in the temple courtyard. As far as Joelle knew, neither had ever been extinguished. She normally lit a candle and sent a prayer to Alequan whenever she entered the fountain room and as they passed the flame, she made a mental note to return and offer a prayer for Perra’s recovery during both of her scheduled meditation hours.

As usual, the trickling water washed away her thoughts and cleansed her from worry. Tranquility wrapped a cloak around her. Despite her exhaustion, she felt at peace as they continued their journey through the temple.

Until they reached the entrance.

A small tree, uprooted and sagging, stood just inside the arches. Lackluster vines, decorated with a type of leaves Joelle had never seen before, encircled the trunk. A gust of wind circled around the fluted pillars scattering a rich earth scent around them. As she stared, a blossom broke away and drifted to the ground. The tangle of vines writhed and liquid hazelnut eyes stared up at Joelle. Three men surrounded the creature; two of them brandishing swords.

Why have you brought this creature to the temple? Joelle asked.

We found her by the river with this. Hestormal retrieved a small glass vial from his robes and handed it to Joelle. She examined it carefully. Dark stains covered the bottle. Ink perhaps. Or mud. Dye from some plant used for medicinal purposes.

You found this . . . Joelle pointed toward the tree.

Dryad.

A dryad. Mystical creatures bound to a Lifetree. Responsible for a good harvest, famine, mild weather, storms, successful hunts, lack of game, seducing men, helping men, murdering women, healing women and snatching children in the night. It was impossible to know the truth. Joelle had read accounts of dryads, some more credible than others, but had never actually seen one before and the creature standing before her looked nothing like the illustrations she had seen. What was she doing this close to Gripparre? There were no forests to speak of; only small copses of trees. The Burnt Mountains guarded their northern, eastern and southern borders and the Otter Sea lay to the west, beyond the bay. Trees were sparse unless you counted the mountain variety. She had never seen a Lifetree, but she doubted it was something that could go unnoticed so close to the town. It didn’t make any sense why the dryad was here, but if the creature wanted to explore their riverbank, so be it.

Let me see if I understand the situation. You found this dryad by the river with a glass bottle, so you captured it. And this urgent discovery requires you to barge into the temple, disrupt my healing, and demand an audience with our Protector immediately?

A crimson flush crept into Hestormal’s cheeks.

We believe the circumstances demand further investigation, Sister. The man standing behind the creature approached Joelle. He was another member of the clergy, but his robe was considerably cleaner. The two men guarding the dryad wore simple tunics. The swords identified them as hired guards. Purchased for this journey or provided by the Grand Temple, she had no way of knowing.

In many situations, Hestormal appears to be guided by Alequan. We’ve come to rely upon his attunement with the creator.

I see. Gripparre, a forgotten fishing town, its streets flooded over the half the year, is so vitally important to the Kingdom it must be destroyed with all due haste. The King will be devastated. Especially considering His Majesty has never once set foot in our town. Joelle tossed the vial back to Hestormal. Did Alequan provide specifics? A cunning plan to overthrow the kingdom with . . . mud, perhaps? She smiled and shook her head.

To demand specifics, or written instructions from the Creator himself, is foolish, the young cleric said.

Something had moved. Joelle jerked her attention back to the dryad. The forest-dweller searched Joelle’s eyes as if she were trying to tell her something. Joelle sighed and massaged her forehead. She needed to lie down. A warm cup of tea, a bed and her husband sleeping beside her.

There. She narrowed her eyes. Something was definitely happening.

As she watched, thorns rose up among the vines; gleaming teeth searching for flesh. The trunk shivered and grew. Leaves withered and died. Their shriveled husks cascaded to the floor like a bizarre waterfall. A low hum sounded from somewhere within the creature’s trunk while a lone vine crept along the floor and coiled itself around one of the guard’s legs.

The guard screamed and tried to back away, only to fall on his ass. A flash of panic crossed his face and after a moment of indecision, he dropped the sword from his hands. Scrambling backward, he scraped the bottom half of his leg across the floor in an effort to dislodge the vine. Frantic, he grasped inside the boot of his free leg. Pulling a knife free, he stabbed the vine multiple times with the smaller weapon. After the fifth stab, the dryad screamed and released his leg. The creeping appendage shivered and withdrew, eventually vanishing behind a thick layer of bark.

The other guard came up behind her and slammed the pommel of his sword into the dryad. The creature shuddered once and then crumpled to the floor.

Joelle shivered and looked up to find Hestormal watching her.

Find your Protector, Sister, he said quietly.

CHAPTER TWO

Gripparre’s Protector stood on the lower pier. His cloak billowed in the wind giving him the appearance of an ancient angel safeguarding the town from whatever destructive forces the violent waves tossed at it. Silver hair glistened in the morning light, slick with sea spray—or sweat—while pipers circled overhead calling to each other and creating a halo of worshipers offering praise.

As Joelle came near, shadows swallowed the docks. The cloak settled across the Protector’s stooped shoulders and the majestic vision faded into the somber realization that before her stood not an angel, but a battered guardian. Only the support of his staff held him upright. A tired old man who could not even be bothered to care about the sea sloshing onto the wooden planks and painting the hem of his robe a watery gray. A man who remains steadfast until his job is complete, or carries on because there is no other to take the burden from him. Worry crept into Joelle’s thoughts.

It wasn’t his age. Many men older than Morrock lived and thrived in the town. However, most of them had a spring in their step, a joy for life that was missing in Morrock these past months. The wrinkles around his eyes no longer danced with mirth. Some unspoken worry hid in a prison somewhere deep inside of him. He looked worn. Like a treasured book filled with discolored pages and the ink fading away. Whatever burden was eating his life away was his secret and she doubted he would share it with her. The arrival of the plague did not help things. Now strangers and woodland folk tales were added to the mix.

The circling birds called to each other and dove to snatch an easy meal before the storm broke. Dockhands scurried about their business while children leapt between them, running for the shore and the chance to heave the fishing boats out of the water. They would catch no fish today and the wild otters had long ago scurried into their underwater dens. The fishermen were returning.

Along the sandy beach, women gathered seaweed while the wind turned their gossip into a muffled melody. A dark canopy of bruised clouds shadowed them. The small group of children bounded along the shore while the wind whipped around them and blew one girl’s golden locks into her face. She reached the edge and halted as the wave washed over her feet. Too timid maybe to go further, she pried the wayward hair from her cheeks and watched as the others marched into the bay with giant steps. Laughing, and sometimes falling, they hauled the skiffs onto dry land. Joelle licked the salty mist on her lips and stared at the girl. For a brief moment, she remembered another little girl. Then she forced herself to forget.

She shuffled across the pier, eyeing the creaking planks with more than a moderate amount of apprehension. The new pier had functioned perfectly the year prior, but she couldn’t help it. The structure was massive and the large clockwork gears that would raise and lower it during periods of flooding were intimidating. One day, the entire thing was going to crash into the bay. She just hoped she was not standing on it when that day came.

She stepped up beside Morrock and inspected the only cargo ship in the harbor. Water lapped rhythmically against her hull. The words The Northern Maiden appeared and disappeared between the waves. Heavy ropes draped over the water and secured the medium-sized trading vessel to the pier. Shouting erupted from the cargo hold followed by a member of the crew lugging a cask. Once on the deck, he dropped it and a loud thud vibrated across the planks. Joelle had missed whatever instructions Morrock had given the captain, but judging by the crew’s behavior and the captain’s pinched look, they were not well received. Sailors performed their duty with lazy hands, lingering to overhear the captain’s discussion. The captain, aware of their interest, ignored them. It must have been in his best interest to have the crew fully informed about their situation.

He placed his foot on the railing and leaned forward, glaring at Morrock. Look, I offload, secure payment, resupply and I’m outta your harbor. He spit into the choppy waves. When he glanced up, he studied Joelle quickly and discarded her as if she were a baby seal; unimportant. He turned his attention back to Morrock. I want outta here as much as you want me outta here, but I’m not leaving until I dispose of this cargo and resupply.

Morrock shifted his weight onto the staff, lifting up to his full height. "The harbor is sealed, Captain Bame. No one enters or leaves until we lift the order—by land, sea or air. These people are my responsibility and I cannot ensure their safety, or yours, going forward. We have one victim already. No one enters the town. No one."

The sailors grumbled. Titles or religious affiliations meant little to these men, and though sailors were notorious for their superstition, if they needed supplies they would get them. One way or another. Joelle looked around for one of the guards, but no Greys patrolled the docks. That was odd. If Morrock had closed the harbor, they should have been here.

"Salt Bay was sealed during the solstice. We’ve been nigh on three weeks on the waves without supplies. How do you expect my crew to survive until we reach the next port? I’m here and aim to finish my business. You can’t seal a harbor while the ships are already moored. You wanna seal this harbor, you shouldda thought of that and formed that blockade before my ship sailed through."

Joelle turned toward the sea. Three ships floated toward the mouth of the harbor. Banners flapped and an ivy-wrapped spear piercing a fish waved from the masts. He had sealed the harbor and as Captain Bame said, his ship was already through. The captain would not leave without supplies. If he had sailed from Smyrja, he would be condemning everyone on the ship to death. This could be a long argument.

Protector, she began.

Not now, Joelle.

Joelle wrapped her cloak tighter around her shoulders. Normally, she would have adhered to protocol and remained silent –subservient—but she had no wish to stand here waiting for the storm and she was past the age where corporal punishment could be employed for failing to heed the proper etiquette. She moved to stand in front of her Master, defiantly blocking his view of the captain and his ship. She lowered her voice and said, Protector, clerics have arrived at the temple with a captured dryad. She may be harmed. The creature has broken no law. Joelle paused.

She remembered the vines wrapping around the guard’s leg. An act of self-defense? Or something more? Had the dryad done any harm? She had no proof the creature had not broken any law. She sucked in a long breath, letting the chilly air whistle through her teeth and jolt her mind awake. What did she know? And what was just beneath the surface waiting to be discovered? All life deserved mercy.

Yet, as Morrock reminded her often, justice had a voice, too. Her dislike of Hestormal naturally created a sense of compassion for the dryad, but had she allowed it to cloud her role as a cleric? She wanted to kick herself for not gathering more information. At any rate, the clerics claim she poses some threat to the town and have requested your presence.

Did they provide any further insight into this threat?

No, Protector. Two clerics and two escorts guard her. Before I left, she began humming. The air tingled and she . . . grew. Magic, but to what degree I do not know. I have read few accounts of their kind and I must confess I know little about such creatures. Is their magic subject to purging?

Morrock shook his head. It’s complicated, he said. He glanced over Joelle’s head and sighed. Captain Bame, you have until the next bell to get this ship out of the harbor. He steered Joelle off the pier. Find Elder Fiskin and bring him to the temple. Bring . . . no, just find Elder Fiskin for now. If we need the others, we can send for them later.

Joelle nodded and watched him disappear down the path that wound through the market district and led to the temple, before turning toward the main harbor road. She found two Greys patrolling the warehouses and sent them to oversee the departure of The Northern Maiden. By the time she set out to find Elder Fiskin, the wind had picked up and she fought her way up the cobbled streets.

The harbor district’s voice rang in her head with dockhands shouting to each other, the clip-clop of horses’ hooves and clatter of loaded wagons, beggars arguing over a tattered blanket, she could even hear the distant banging from the shipyards. She did not know how anyone could get anything done. It was as if all the people in the town congregated here, in one place. Of course, most of them did. The Otter Sea was their life. Fish, otters, and ships provided food, oil, and money. Rose pearls brought in coin from every city south of the mountains. While not the busiest harbor in Sarond, the frigid waters provided a substantial trade with the frozen islands to the northeast and even the southern cities hidden deep within the mountains. During the winter, the sea became a frozen pathway to the Spice Islands to their southwest. It was the very breath of life to almost every person within the town walls.

It was also their destruction. Ensconced within the Burnt Mountains, it was a miracle their town hadn’t been wiped out long ago. Instead, the residents had learned how to adapt and when the thaws came and the river flooded, life went on. Extra levels supported those buildings flanking the river. Carts and wagons doubled as boats, once they removed the iron frames and wheels. Upper tier gardens and pastures provided food for the townsfolk and their livestock. And almost everyone, even the smallest child had their own boat, whether they were ferries, warehouse skiffs, personal rowboats, or a logger—a poor man’s raft. In short, if you knew how to build a boat, like her husband, you were in demand.

Joelle rubbed her temples, invoking a small healing prayer to ease the throbbing. Mist drizzled down and coated the cobblestones with a slick sheen. A gauzy fog wrapped around her feet. Panic raced up her spine and Joelle slowed her steps, fearful she might fall. It had been years since she had broken any bones, but old habits die hard.

The White Otter lay at the crossroads of the harbor and merchant districts. Joelle opened the door, hoping the stout walls would harbor a quieter voice. She was not disappointed. Soft murmurs drifted to her from several conversations, but otherwise the inn was pleasantly quiet. She blinked twice, adjusting to the bright interior, and coughed. The smell of sickly-sweet otter oil washed over her and she leaned against the door a moment, allowing her senses to recover from the onslaught. Lanterns swayed from the rafters painting the tables with stripes of light. They lit the temple with beeswax candles, perhaps out of tradition, and it always took her a moment to adjust to the thick aroma whenever she entered a room brightened with the powerful oil lanterns.

When her head stopped spinning, and she could breathe without gagging, she pushed away from the door. Just in time to bump into the serving girl as