Whew!

That’s pretty hard to swallow. No blogging since October! Really? OCTOBER???

Having a busy holiday season is one thing, but a busy six-month long holiday season and entire winter?

The bottom line is priorities. For the past several months, I have had to place my blogging about (though not my writing of) The Proving on the back burner. But enough of that… things on the back burner tend to never get hot!

So let’s try this again, shall we?

~Kevin

Hello, all!

I’ve been away from the blog for a bit just due to time pressure… but now I have a few days of R&R here at home and I am making the most of it. Time, whenever I get to steal some, really is on my side. And no, I am not referring to the well-documented fact that THE PROVING and the rest of the Tome of Pasaron books have time travel as one of their central elements.

The beauty of working on THE PROVING in both its original version and during this extensive re-write is how easy it has been to write it. The story really just writes itself! The biggest challenge I have had is time, because easy or not, typing takes quite a bit of it.

As of this morning, I am plowing new ground in chapter 14 of the book, at a plot event that marks the halfway point of THE PROVING.  I am still way over my word count goal, but am not worried. Cutting material is so much easier than writing new.

In the meantime, I am probably going to post one more preview chapter here on the blog today or tomorrow. Please give feedback, positive or negative! The more the merrier.

Until later,

~Kevin

So how about a big shift in the book’s opening? Sound good? Maybe not?

Yeah, I couldn’t leave well enough alone. Take a look at this new opening to Chapter 1. Only the first few pages are new, so if you are already familiar with Argand and Kosin fighting in the pithwood there is no need to re-read the entire chapter. But I have a new concept for the opening itself.

Please let me know what you think!

* * *

The Proving

CHAPTER 1 – PITHWOOD

Was Argand dreaming?

He was high in the Summer season sky, beyond where any bird could fly, able to see for a hundred miles in any direction. The expanse of Pasaron’s central plains lay beneath him like world-sized quilt of greens and browns, occasionally punctuated with small woods, rivers, and gently rolling hills. The Land was quiet and serene.

But conflict invaded the peaceful meadows. From every point on the horizon armies of men gathered, each led by an impossibly huge winged beast of a different color. Argand knew the great birds; they were the Phoenix Spectrum, the first created beings in the Lands of Pasaron, the bearers of the limitless powers granted by the Creator himself.

With hundreds, thousands, and tens of thousands of armed human servants amassed behind them, the city-sized phoenixes converged on the plain. Soon the enormous birds were face to face, a circle of varicolored might. The Gold Phoenix shone like the sun itself. The Black Phoenix crouched motionless, a hole in reality, a living sliver of night. The Blue Phoenix glittered like the greatest of all gemstones. The Green Phoenix radiated raised its head high in proud challenge.  But from the east and west came the two greatest of all, the Silver Phoenix and her twin sister, the Red. The other magical beasts gave way, lowering their building-sized, eyeless heads in obeisance to the Silver and the Red, the Creator’s prized daughters. The armies that followed each of these two phoenixes dwarfed the rest of the Spectrum’s forces.

Argand watched in awe as the scene unfolded, hoping his presence above the now crowded plain would go unnoticed. Anger, fear, and grim determination emanated from the sea of humanity as they drew swords, leveled spears, and nocked bows in preparation. His mind knew this must be a dream, but his emotions were not convinced.

The Red Phoenix, whose metallic feathers radiated an intense volcanic heat, spoke.

“And so it comes to this, sister? You must relent. You cannot win this battle.”

“And yet we will fight,” replied the Silver Phoenix.  “It is The Proving; the struggle which cannot be ignored.”

There’s that name again, Argand thought. The Proving. I have had this dream before. What does it mean?

“And all of your servants, sister? Would you lose them in the name of such a pointless fight?” said the Red Phoenix, twisting her gigantic head inquisitively.

“My servants are prepared to sacrifice themselves to protect their homes, their families, from you sister,” answered the Silver.

“And my servants are prepared to help yours make that sacrifice,” replied the Red with sudden fury. “Minions all… attack!”

And battle was joined.

Argand watched in futility as the armies of the Phoenix Spectrum aligned themselves with either the Red or the Silver and joined the melee. The Phoenixes themselves withheld their great magical powers, instead letting their human servants clash. Clouds of arrows cast shadows across the plain. Great siege engines laid waste to advancing battalions.

But something changed far below; a group of armored knights arose from the ranks of Red Phoenix’ army to cut great swaths through the ranks of those serving the Silver. None could withstand them as they cruelly wielded weapons of power and magical might. They spread out across the Land, attacking not just the opposing soldiers but also their defenseless hometowns. They sowed division throughout the people of the Land through trickery and illusion. Soon the brave leaders under the Silver banner fell.

In answer, a pack of mounted, silver-armored knights appeared within the throng. They too wielded powers usually known only to phoenix-kind, and fought the red knights with no concern for their own lives. Argand found himself cheering for the silver knights as they placed themselves between the Red hoards and the armies of Silver.

The red knights were overcome.

But at the moment of celebration, the Red Phoenix herself bounded into the sky then fell upon the servants of the Silver with immeasurable fury. The Silver Phoenix responded, and the two sisters’ incredible powers were unleashed upon the each other, and upon the Land.

The Land lost.

The crust of the earth was torn apart like parchment paper. The distant seas boiled and seethed. The sky itself blasted upward in a maelstrom, buffeting Argand like a feather in a storm. The other members of the Phoenix Spectrum panicked, trying to save themselves and their people, but the devastation was too great. The Land itself dissolved and ran in great streaks, like watered down paint on the greatest of all canvases.

As the Land faded from Argand’s sight, he felt tears streaming down his face. There must be another way, he thought. So much death. So much pain! There must be another solution.

There is, said a quiet voice above him. There is indeed. War is a diversion. The Proving will not be contested this way again. But now, you must wake up.

What? Argand thought. Why must I wake up now? I want to know the answer. What is the solution?

Wake up, Argand. Wake up now.

But…

“Wake up, Argand!” Kosin called again, shaking Argand by the shoulders as hard as he could. “We’ve got company. Bandits, and quite a pack of them. Come one!”

Argand fought to clear the fog in his head, still seeing the endless battles across the plains of that strange Land with a part of his mind. It was just a dream. Just a dream.

“Argand!”

“Bandits! Are you sure,” Argand mumbled as he grabbed his sword, rolled over on his sleeping pallet and crawled out of the tent behind Kosin.

But Kosin didn’t have to answer. At the edges of the small clearing he and Kosin had chosen for a campsite stood five armed men, filthy and rugged.

“Here now,” the fat bandit said in a gravelly voice, “let’s not make doin’s get ugly, young masters.”

He pointed the curved blade at Argand then at the shorter, stockier form of Kosin next to him.

“Ain’t no need for ya to get hurt, y’know,” he continued as a toothless grin appeared through his matted beard, “just toss yer weapons and toss yer gold, and we’ll call it smooth. Toss ’em now!”

Glancing to his right, Argand saw that Kosin looked alert but unworried. Argand briefly thought about how unusual this was. Two travelers, both a few weeks less than twenty Summers old, surrounded by thieves in an isolated wood… and neither of them were afraid.

“I am Argand Mason of Eagle’s Reach,” Argand said in a commanding voice as he turned back to the thieves. “I will give you one chance. Leave us. Now. And I can promise you will not be injured. This is certainly more than you deserve, cutpurse. Go.”

Argand knew his wavy black hair and clothes were disheveled, and that he looked like a man suddenly roused from sleep – which he was. But he spoke as if he were a king passing judgment, addressing the bandits as if he fully expected them to back down.

And they nearly did. The fat thief hesitated. A look of confusion crossed his face and the tip of his scimitar dropped to the ground.

The pock-marked thief forced a mocking laugh, while the others just shook their heads. The fat thief, recovered from his momentary lapse, quickly hefted his blade.

“O’ reeeally???” he drawled, stepping closer. “Now, lemme see, Eagles-Reachling. You, tall as ya might be, holdin’ maybe twenty-five summers in the Land? And yer wee-short companion there with ya? And yer gonna… uh… let US go unhurt??? When it’s five on two? Mighty bold words, don’t ya think?!”

“Let’s just take these fools, Argand,” muttered Kosin under his breath, “they’re common cut-throats. We can beat them easily enough.” Kosin was about a foot shorter than his broad-shouldered friend, with thick black hair and green eyes. He was very muscular for his size, broad in the chest and thick across the shoulders, and spoke in a quiet, flowing voice while standing ever-so-slightly on the balls of his feet.

“We can take them,” agreed Argand quietly, “it’s the eight men that have crept up behind us in the brush that concern me, Kosin.”

Kosin’s eyebrows climbed up his forehead as his widening eyes darted around the clearing. Argand kept his face frozen, feeling the presence of all of the brigands through his feet as always. Every step, every shuffle, every pause… he could feel all of their movements, their very presences, through the ground itself when people were this close. It took very little effort for him to differentiate the pulses in the ground and pick out the eight hidden assailants and their movements. He still wasn’t sure exactly when he had realized that the odd sensations actually meant something, that they were so very useful. During these recent weeks of eastward travel towards Coradis City along the crime-ridden Jury Road, he was sure the tell-tale pulses had saved his life repeatedly.

The lead thief had heard Argand. The grin faded from his face, replaced by a puzzled frown that made the scar on his forehead bulge grossly.

“How…??? Ya couldn’t possibly know!” he sputtered. Face darkening to a scowl, he raised the scimitar to attack position.

“Well, then, young tho ya are, I guess we’ll be havin’ to do this the hard way!”

“Ummm, Argand?” muttered Kosin under his breath, “thirteen men? We have been pretty lucky before, but…,”

“RUN!” Argand breathed at Kosin as he took off at a full sprint to his right. He bounded over the dying embers of the fire and sped into the brush with Kosin just a step behind.

The five thieves took off in pursuit, and the grunts and exclamations from the nearby woods confirmed what the pulses revealed; the rest of the bandits had joined the chase.

Argand angled sharply left through the dense undergrowth and occasional thin trunks of burbin trees, his long legs pumping in the chill morning air. Kosin was faster, though, and soon was right at his side.

“Get ready,” Argand said, swatting saplings from before his face and leaping over a few deadfalls. “A few of these slime are mounted and circling around this brush… we can’t outrun them.”

Kosin slid and bounded along smoothly, much more like a shadowy blur than a man. He had a much easier time leaping over obstacles and weaving his way among the woodlands than Argand did, and it wasn’t solely due to his smaller size.

“Okay, up ahead,” breathed Argand as he saw a large group of mature pith trees, their trunks as wide as a horse is long. There was very little undergrowth between the piths due to the lack of light under their towering canopies.

The sounds of horses and men drew closer as Argand and Kosin broke out of the brush and into the grove of ancient trees.

“You climb and cover me,” called Argand. But Kosin was clearly already of the same mind as he ran straight for a sap-stained black trunk.

Kosin said nothing. He rarely spoke during their recent encounters with brigands, cutthroats, and other diverse miscreants all over Jesserin duchy. He leapt at the base of the largest pith tree in his line of sight and hit it hard, letting his fingers find the natural cracks and crags in the rough surface while his toes instantly found purchase beneath him. He sped up the tree just as fast as he had been running a moment before.

To Argand, this was nothing new. Kosin Fletcher had been climbing trees, walls, rocks, and just about anything else vertical since they were both children. But lately, the feats he had been able to achieve had defied description. He seemed to have perfect balance and immeasurable agility, especially when he needed it most. It was unnatural, they both knew. As was Argand’s ability to ‘see’ via the pulses he sensed in the ground.

Argand slowed, glancing back to watch Kosin as he reached the canopy and bounded out onto a large branch. Kosin squatted low, balancing easily, while he drew several of the razor-sharp, hilt-less throwing knives he carried. He had two dozen of the six-inch long weapons hidden amongst the folds of his cloak and clothing, each held in place by a thin leather sheath lined with steel. The short man was practically invisible in the dim pithwood canopy, seeming to fade right into the shadows.

Argand saw a small clearing in the wood dominated by a group of short, wide stumps of pith trees that had been felled by loggers years before. Crouching behind the largest stump and closing his eyes, Argand focused on the peculiar, pulse like surges and read them as if he were scanning a book. Through the sensations he could tell that the horses had stopped, the riders now on foot, and that his earlier count had been accurate; he and Kosin were powerfully outnumbered. Argand knew it would take some show of force to deter them at this point. The chain mail he wore, the sword at his side, even his and Kosin’s clothes would fetch a fair weight of gold and silver on the streets of nearby JesserinCity or Oakbridge – not even counting whatever coins might be found in their pouches. No, these thieves would not back down easily.

The sweet smell of pith tree sap filled Argand’s nostrils. The pleasant aroma contrasted sharply with the foreboding dimness that filled the wood. With practiced stealth, he silently drew his sword from its sheath. He always felt more confident, almost as confident as he acted, once he had his blade in his hands. Argand closed his eyes and waited.

Without thinking, he placed one hand on the ground as he knelt. His eyes popped open in shock as he felt strong waves of warmth stream up his arm to his shoulder and beyond, as if a flow of heated bathwater had been injected into his veins. Gasping, he jerked his hand up and the rush vanished instantly. All he could feel now were the sensations in his feet. There were brigands still more than than fifty feet from him – how had he and Kosin managed to gain such separation so quickly? – and they were closing in on his hiding place.

He carefully returned his hand to the ground and the shot of warm energy again coursed up his arm. It was not painful, but was incredibly powerful. It took him a second to realize that the feeling in his arm was exactly aligned with the familiar, pulse like surges in his feet. It was the same perception, but magnified a hundred fold. He closed his eyes and concentrated.

The energies climbing into his consciousness from the ground itself seemed to solidify, suddenly coalescing into vivid images in his mind like streaks of glowing paint being manipulated by the Land’s fastest artist. The moon-faced leader of the band, closing in on the pith tree stump at a slow trot, the other thieves lined up behind the leader with their bows and swords at the ready, two other men closing from the left with short swords and daggers, two more men with bows closing slowly from the right, horses tied to trees about twenty yards distant, a man with a strange-looking sword and silver gauntlets standing in a clearing ringed with deep shadows, a trader’s wagon pulled by a team of four workhorses along the Jury Road, the crowded marketplace in Oern village, leagues away along the river–

Argand jerked his hand from the ground and opened his eyes, watering from the intensity of the pictures that had just flashed through his thoughts. The views of those men and places were so very clear this time, with his hand in the soil and fallen leaves. He had never felt anything like it. What’s happening to me? he thought.

But there was no time. He could hear the heavy wheezing of the lead thief just on the other side of the stump. Argand held his breath, uttering a silent prayer to the Creator for help… and for continued accuracy from Kosin. He didn’t want to end up with one of those perfectly sharp throwing knives ruining his day.

In one fluid motion, Argand rose from behind the stump and slashed powerfully with his big blade, knocking the scimitar out of the leader’s hands. Without pausing Argand leapt over the stump and brought his sword’s pommel down hard on the leader’s filthy head with a sickening crunch. But before the thief’s round body could hit the ground, Argand was upon the next three brigands like a storm of metal. He engaged them with the short, circular arcs of the Highlander blade technique, and the sound of ringing steel filled the shadowy wood. Argand performed a powerful fake slash followed by a quick twisting jab through the first thief’s sword wrist, forcing him to drop his sword as he howled in pain. He then felled the other two by shattering their short swords with two lighting fast, crushing overhand swings followed by a swift kick to the gut of the nearest man that sent him crashing into his neighbor.

But the others, led by the scrawny fellow with the hawk nose, had recovered from their surprise at Argand’s furious onslaught. Hawk-nose, his sword held low and ready, and a round-faced bandit with a bull whip stood in front of Argand as the other men quickly fanned out to cut off any escape.

“The young man thinks he’s a hot-blade, Furo,” the bull whip holder muttered to hawk-nose as he loosened the whips black leather coils. “Let’s teach him a thing or two, eh?”

“With pleasure,” grunted Furo with a murderous gleam in his eyes.

Another thief entered the clearing and aimed a large crossbow at Argand’s chest. But before he could shoot, Furo charged.

The pulses surged in Argand’s temples, filling his mind with images of the thief Furo’s movements far sharper than his eyes could have ever managed in the dim light of the pithwood. Argand quickly blocked and parried the initial attack, side-stepping deftly to keep Furo between himself and the crossbow.

Again and again Furo pressed his attack, swinging in broad low arcs punctuated by staccato thrusts toward Argand’s neck or groin. Classic Goldon technique, Argand thought to himself calmly as he easily blocked and turned aside each move, paying more attention to the throbbing heartbeat of the pulses emanating from the ground than to what his eyes could see. He saw numerous opportunities to strike Furo down – a razor sharp vision of the large armhole of the brigand’s mail left exposed as he overextended a thrust – a crystalline image of Furo’s exposed left side when he mis-timed a broad, low sword stroke – but Argand instead continued to use him as a shield against the crossbowman.

A shrieking lance of color shot across Argand’s thoughts, and he instinctively fell into a crouch. The thundercrack of the bull whip rang in his ears as it sliced the air where his skull had been an instant before. Argand fluidly rolled and recovered onto his knees just in time to deflect Furo’s wild overhead swing. Pivoting with his left hand on the ground and sweeping his right foot powerfully, Argand took out Furo’s legs. The brigand, crying out in shock and flailing his arms, landed flat on his back with a heavy thud.

A colorful shift in the mad rush of pulses led Argand to jerk his broadsword high over his head as he finished his crouched spin. The crack of the bull whip was suddenly muted as the arching leather lash wrapped itself tightly around Argand’s extended blade. Argand launched himself back onto his feet as he yanked the whip free from the round-faced thief’s hands, sending the stunned man tumbling forward awkwardly.

But Argand’s focus was already on the crossbowman, poised and ready to fire. Argand’s time was up, and he knew it.

Then Kosin struck.

The thief with the crossbow screamed loudly as his trigger hand was pierced by a shining metal knife that came whistling down from the dim canopy. Furo rolled back onto his feet and moving to re-engage Argand, but then screamed in pain and dropped his sword as another knife split his right wrist from the back to the front. The whip wielder dove for cover behind a tree trunk, but took a knife in his hamstring before he hit the ground. The other bowmen in the clearing aimed upwards in a panic, but saw nothing in the shady canopy. Then they too cried out and dropped their weapons as their arms and hands sprouted shiny metal blades from Kosin’s unseen hand.

More screams erupted from the woods to the left and right, and Argand could sense via the pulses that several of the men that had been attempting to flank them were now bolting for their horses. A few of them managed to yank Kosin’s knives free, dropping them as they ran.

The pulses said that there was still one thief that had not run, hiding behind a tree to the right. Argand held his sword at the ready, but he couldn’t cross the distance in time if the bandit had a bow.

Argand slowly knelt and placed his left hand on the ground. The chorus of streaking colors quickly cleared into a detailed vision of the hiding thief. He was older, with long white hair worn in a braid and a round shield strapped to his back. He had a short bow with an arrow on-string.

The high-pitched twang of the arrows release filled the quiet pithwood.

Argand reflexively tensed for the arrow’s blow, but it never came. He heard a quick snap, then the thud of the arrow hitting the ground. A moment later, another scream pierced the early morning air. Argand sensed the archer’s steps as he ran away with one of Kosin’s blades in his flesh.

Kosin landed on the soft ground in front of Argand, his black cloak flailing around him as he fell instantly into a squat. He still had a knife in his right hand, pinched between two fingers, but Argand lowered his sword and heaved a sigh.

“That’s it. That’s all of them,” he said, finally breathing easily.

“No,” Kosin said, slowly spinning in place in his crouch and surveying the trees, “No, you said there were thirteen. I don’t see any others either, but I hit nine with knives, and you got three with your sword. Where’s the other?”

Argand’s smile faded. He sheathed his sword and focused on the sensations in his feet. The pulses were there, but they revealed no other bandits in the vicinity. He again placed his hand on the ground.

The warm energy spun into Argand’s mind once again. He saw the injured thieves as they gained ground on horseback and on foot, working their way eastward back toward the fishing village of Oern through which Argand and Kosin had passed on the previous day. They would be seeking medical attention from a local physician.

But the thirteenth figure, the one in the silver, shimmering gauntlets, was gone.

“What’s this?” asked Kosin, frowning at Argand as he knelt with his hand in the soil. “A new trick? Or are you worn out from your sparring session?”

Argand grinned and stood, brushing the dirt off of his hand. “Well, yes. A new trick. I will explain it to you… if I can… later. But no, there’s no one else anywhere near here. I picked out thirteen men, yes, but I don’t think the thirteenth was a thief. Someone was standing farther off – maybe a lot farther off – not sure. I couldn’t tell the difference.”

Kosin stood and returned the knife to the folds of his cloak. He continued to scan the pithwood warily as he began hunting for and cleaning his remaining weapons among the leaves and dirt. It took a lot to get Kosin to relax after an event like this. And Argand had learned firsthand that events like this were happening all the time these days in Jesserin Duchy.

“Three men, Argand? You took down three men hand-to-hand and don’t even have a scratch to show for it? It’s hard to believe, but you are getting even better with the sword, aren’t you.” It wasn’t really a question.

Argand sighed. “It wasn’t even that hard. It was as if they were moving through a bog and I was attacking at full speed. If it hadn’t been for the archers, I feel like I could’ve taken them all!” Argand paused then cocked an eyebrow. “But if it’s all the same to you, maybe you shouldn’t wait quite so long to do your knife work next time? That was pretty close.”

“Well you were doing just fine when the fighting started,” Kosin replied, shrugging as he picked up another bloody blade and cleaned it on a handful of fallen leaves. “But towards the end, I was worried. I thought that last bowman was going to force me to continue my travels solo.”

“You and me both,” Argand said as he leaned against the stump. The fat thief still lay at its base, unconscious and snoring softly. He would have a colossal bruise and an equally large headache once he awoke. “If that last one was a good shot, I think you would be carrying me on your back to the nearest cuperative right now!”

Kosin’s frown deepened. He walked over to an arrow lying on the ground a dozen feet away, then tossed it to Argand.

Argand caught the arrow and looked at it closely. The arrowhead was intact, but the shaft ended abruptly as if it had been cut. A second later, Kosin tossed him the other half of the shaft with the fletching still in place. Argand’s eyebrows rose high on his forehead as he again looked at Kosin, watching as the small man bent to pick up another one of his throwing knives, buried up to its end in the soft earth. This one had no blood on it.

Argand’s mouth gaped open.

“Right,” Kosin said, growing a little pale. “Your archer didn’t miss. I… uh… I hit the arrow. In mid-flight. With one of my knives.”

Argand closed his mouth, blinking hard. “On purpose? You aimed for the arrow? You could see it???”

“Uh, I could more feel it than see it. I just reacted. And I knew, the second I let the knife fly, that I wouldn’t miss.”

“Unbelievable. A new trick, Mr. Fletcher?”

Kosin smiled then, but his brow was furrowed. “Well, yes. I’ll explain it… if I can… later.” He slowly shook his head.

“Argand,” said Kosin, head shaking in confusion, “what is happening to us?”

“I have no idea, Kosin. I have absolutely no idea. But I’m more convinced than ever that we need to keep all of this to ourselves.”

Kosin nodded in agreement, looking back at the crumpled form of the lead thief as they began walking back towards their campsite. “No one would believe any of those dirtbags if they did talk, so I doubt we have anything to worry about.”

But Argand was worried. He felt like it was only a matter of time until one of them did something that gave away their incredible abilities. That’s the way the stories always seemed to play out. Some young man or woman is discovered to be an Emergent, a person hiding a skill that could only be magic. Once discovered, Emergents were locked up permanently in the name of public safety. It was hard to argue with the motives of the physicians, of course. It had to be better to commit a small minority than to risk another murder spree at the hands of an Emergent. But Argand knew he and Kosin would remain sane, that they were the exception to the rule.

More accurately, Argand hoped – desperately – that he and Kosin were not following the Emergents’ dark path towards madness.

“It’s going to be okay,” Kosin said, snapping Argand out of his reverie. “We watch each other. If things start going badly for one of us, the other can intervene. We walk to Coradis, meet up with the others, and tell them everything. Let them decide for themselves. If they’re concerned, we go it alone. Right?”

Argand nodded. “Right. It’s a good plan. We should stick to it. But the Jury road is just too dangerous. We’d better look into hiring a boat once we get to HaverlinCity.”

Kosin’s face darkened at that comment. Argand jumped in before he could begin to grouse.

“It’s worth a few weight of gold to get us off this road, Kosin! Besides, as knights we will have endless weights of gold to–,”

“We’re not knights yet,” Kosin interrupted smoothly as they stepped over a small creek.

“But you know we will be.”

“No matter how skilled we are, there are no guarantees. You’ve heard the stories of… people like us… when they go on Venture,” Kosin said, carefully avoiding the word ‘Emergents’ even though they were alone. “I think we need to lower our expectations.”

“I know what you’re saying. I know the stories. But something tells me that we’re different. I know that we’re different. Trust me.”

The rest of their walk to their campsite was silent save birdsongs and the quiet crunch of their footsteps on the forest floor. But Argand’s words echoed in his mind. Something tells me that we’re different, he thought to himself. We must be meant for more than madness and imprisonment! Mustn’t we?

He looked skyward with a deepening frown, casting his question at the thin clouds above. But the brightening morning offered no reply.

* * *

Thanks for reading!

~Kevin

Hello, all,

I posted a new synopsis for THE PROVING on Author Salon a few weeks ago, and just realized that I never included it here on the blog. So see below. The synopsis is not identical to the blurb on the back of a book jacket since it sort of gives away the ending! Its real purpose is to summarize the manuscript for rapid digestion by editors and publishers.

>>>

In the Land of Pasaron, the evil Red and the benevolent Silver phoenixes battle for the allegiance of mankind. Since they are forbidden from clashing directly, they bestow select humans with supernatural powers to fight in their stead in a cycle of combat called THE PROVING.

But self-confident adventurer Argand Mason is unaware of phoenixes or supernatural powers, except within fanciful Bard’s tales. He knows that in the Touran Protectorates magic wielders are labeled Emergents and locked away in the name of public safety. When he, the Princess Darian Touran, and others begin exhibiting such abilities, they must hide their talents. They soon learn of their role as the Elect of the Silver Phoenix, and they learn of their foe. The twisted grandsons of King Balon, ruler of hostile MasMindon, have prepared for THE PROVING for years.

Argand and Darian lead an inexperienced group of young Elect against the servants of the Red Phoenix. The heroes win THE PROVING, then defeat the invading MasMindon army. But the Red Phoenix’ servants quietly celebrate. Argand, Darian, and their friends have no idea that the real battle is still to come.

>>>

Thanks for reading!

~Kevin

The marketing experts say that having a great “hook line” or “log line” for your book is critical. Here are a few lines on the topic from AuthorSalon.com:

This much shorter description is really your “Hook Line” or “Log Line” as it is known in the film industry. A good and hooky one liner is just as necessary and useful for promoting novels and nonfiction books as it is for film scripts.

Also, like many other aspects of your Author Salon profile, it forces you to consider your work in a manner that strongly encourages you to realize those primary elements that will help sell it (see below), or at least convince an agent or editor to take it seriously from the onset.

My hook (in THE PROVING profile at AuthorSalon.com) has been pretty weak. So I am re-working it as part of this week’s push towards massive progress on the book. It needs to be no more than 70 words or so, two or three sentences, but capture conflict, characters, distinction, setting, and action at a very high level.

Let me know what you think, and PLEASE suggest improvements. You can’t hurt my feelings with this stuff… I am all about improvement!

THE PROVING, by KE Jackson: Hook Line

Emergents, they are called; young people in the kingdom of Touran who manifest incredible supernatural powers but inevitably become murderously insane. But when a brash young adventurer and a royal princess begin to manifest Emergent powers, they learn of their calling to lead a band of fearful, hunted youths against powerful dark princes in a contest called THE PROVING – with the fate of their world in the balance.

~Kevin

Chapter 4 is a re-wickered version of the original “Queen’s Breakfast” chapter in Emergence now told from Princess Darian’s point of view. Lot’s of important supporting characters for final act plot lines are introduced here, and Darian manages the first “sex change” in the re-write. The voice which used to speak in Loric’s mind now shows up in her mind instead, convincing her she is crazy.

* * *

Chapter 4 – The Queen’s Breakfast

Most of the attendees of the royal morning briefing were already seated and conversing quietly as Darian entered the upper conference room. Her mother the Queen sat at the head of the gleaming marble table dressed in informal morning wear; a simple, multi-layered pink robe with a white shawl over her shoulders. Her frosty hair was pulled back into a single thick braid down her back. Darian’s father, the King Regent, sat at the Queen’s right hand wearing a white silken shirt under a deep blue robe with the sigil of Touran – six tiny white stars in a circle – emblazoned on the breast. His dark islander skin showed hints of red and bronze in the bright yellow marsh-oil lamplight.

Darian absorbed the stares of her mother’s closest advisors with practiced stoicism. She had attended these sessions at her mother’s insistence in far worse condition in the past; once with her sword arm freshly bound in a cast, several times with notable limps from leg injuries suffered while climbing. So the large forehead bandage she wore was not really out of place. At least that is what she told herself as crossed the room to sit next to her father.

Next to her was the powerful form of Sir Jason Bertram, the Royal First Knight and Darian’s long-time trainer, in dark metallic chain mail and light gauntlets over a royal blue caynspun shirt. Then came Sir Yoral Aspinon, the queen’s Second and Sir Jason’s Chief of Staff. At the table’s end opposite the queen sat Losina MonDevlon, the queen’s Voice in the Conclave, her deep brown hair up in a business-like knot. She wore a snug-fitting black silk blouse with an array of tasteful jewelry. Losina was also a Blue Islander, though she had not known Darian’s father until she met him here in Coradis. Of course, she was less than half Xanad’s age, being the youngest member of Touran’s legislative body in recorded history.

Across the table from Sir Yoral was the empty spot reserved for Master Oriander, the retired Chief Steward of Coradine Castle. The queen’s chief of security, Jaymes Baron, sat attentively in the next chair. Jaymes was a thin, simple-looking man who tended to speak only when spoken to. His short black hair was always perfectly neat, his eyes always alert. He wore the most non-descript clothing possible, all grays and browns, which impressed Darian. She was not one to be deceived by appearances, and so many of those working for her mother seemed to think that frivolous dress and face paint could secure the trust of the throne.

The final seat was for Chief Steward Morton ParSureth, who came bustling in after Darian.

“My queen, please accept my sincerest apologies! I am horribly late, and I have no excuse,” Morton panted, lowering his eyes as he faced the smiling queen.

“Oh, Morton… you are perhaps five minutes off of your usual unalterable master plan? Really, you are going to give yourself an ulcer. Relax!” Queen Lorrelai said, patting him on the hand.

“To the contrary, my queen,” Morton replied, shame evident in his voice. The moon-faced Chief Steward wore a suit and coat as always, and never ceased either straightening his vest or checking his pocket timepiece or fidgeting with his stack of official reports in a nervous haze. “I was eleven minutes late for your morning briefing. An egregious error that I promise will not be repeated.”

Lorrelai sighed deeply. “As you wish, Morton. But I do hope you soon learn not to push yourself so hard.” She turned to address the whole table then. “Please, everyone eat. We will begin with the reports of the day in a few moments.”

Servants approached bearing stone pitchers of Falon coffee and warm, Heartlands bread. And, to Darian’s delight, they replaced the cold trays of cooked eggs with fresh. There were large bowls of BlueIslands’ fruit, steamed rices, and slivered ice peppers from the far Cronian coast. Darian didn’t hesitate, helping herself to large helpings of each. Her active, sleepless night had left her with an enormous appetite.

“Let us begin, friends,” the queen said several minutes later. “I am sure you all have important matters to attend to, and I wouldn’t want to make anyone late,” here she winked at Morton. The round man blushed and looked down at his plate.

“But first, let us address one of the more obvious issues in the room,” the queen continued in a kind but pointed voice, turning to Darian. “Dear?”

Darian cleared her throat and put down her fork, allowing a small grin to light the corners of her mouth.

“It was a sleepwalking accident, nothing more,” she said, scanning the faces of her mother’s advisors. “I woke up having apparently fallen flat on my face.” That part, at least, was true. Sort of.

Darian avoided Sir Jason’s eyes. The Royal First Knight had a talent for spotting deception, especially from Darian. But she could feel the knight’s suspicious gaze boring into the side of her head as she spoke.

“Before you say anything, Chief Jaymes,” King Regent Xanad said suddenly, getting the security chief’s attention, “I already spoke with Darian this morning about revisiting your suggestion about changing her sleeping arrangements.”

“And as before,” said Darian in a business-like tone, “I said I would consider it. But I really do love my privacy. A few random accidents really don’t pose a grave threat.”

“I must disagree,” Sir Jason said, his deep voice reverberating from the stone walls. “Princess, your safety is, as always, a matter of national security. An heir who is prone to sleepwalking is an heir in need of extra protection.”

Darian looked down at her food, pretending to consider the situation. In truth, she really didn’t care what changes were made to her sleeping arrangements since her remaining days in Coradis were so few.

“Very well, father… Chief Jaymes. Let’s discuss the matter further. Soon.”

Darian saw Sir Jason quirk a curious eyebrow at her response. It is impossible to fool that man, she thought to herself. But no matter. This will be over in a few days.

The queen smiled broadly. “Excellent, Darian! I think we will all sleep better knowing that your sleep is much less eventful. Now then, let us begin. Sir Jason, what do you have for today?”

Sir Jason clasped his gauntlets on the table in front of him as he pulled probing eyes away from Darian to face the queen. He was still a young man, not yet forty-five Summers, but he carried himself with the bearing of an elder dignitary. He expected to be heard and obeyed when he spoke, and as a result, he almost always was. Jason wore his brown hair long and displayed a thin circlet of steel around his head. His dark eyes were keen, his rectangular face earnest looking. He was quick to smile, but per his position as First Knight of Queen Lorrelai, just as quick to act in defense of the Protectorates.

“Nothing new of substance to report from the Grey Shields or the Pathwatch, my Queen,” he said formally. “Recruiting is up substantially, continuing the trend that began several Summers ago, in the duchy local patrols, for the Shields, and to a lesser degree the Pathwatch. We may need to expand the south barracks if this keeps up, which would demand an increase in infrastructure, supplies and trainers. All of which I think are a good idea, by the way. As you will see by the rest of my report.

“There are continuing reports of Dramini raider activity,” the knight continued, “hitting Brandon Duchy traders, lumbermen, and other frontiersman down near the East Onofel. At least ten more Touran citizens dead this past week, my Queen. Duke Kelley is outraged, and is about to repeat his demands for extended support from the Grey Shields to stop the attacks.”

Lorrelai’s eyebrows drew down, her eyes narrowing. “Has Duke Kelley begun to strongly engage his own troops as I requested? He has the numbers to overwhelm a typical Dramini raid if his troops are positioned in advance.”

“That is the other news, my queen. Apparently the recent attacks have been somewhat coordinated. A single tribe is usually never more than forty or fifty Dramini. These latest attacks appear to have been as many as two or three hundred.”

The queen blinked hard at that. “Hundreds? Working together to strike common traders and lumbermen?”

“It appears so, my queen. As unlikely and disturbing as they are, these last reports appear to be reliable.” Here Sir Jason turned to face Jaymes Baron across the table.

“I concur, Queen Lorrelai,” Jaymes said in his quiet, unassuming voice. “These reports were from reliable sources. Large groups of Dramini have indeed been crossing into the Protectorates, then retreating on their own accord. Their victims have very little of value, as you know, so the point of the escalation is unclear.”

The Queen nodded solemnly. “Very well. Carry on, Jason.”

“To the north, all signs appear good on the Falon border. Apparently they are pleased with the import tax reductions you put into place over Winter season. There have been no formal communications as far as I know, but the Pathwatch patrols that have passed near the border bring back positive comments from their Falon counterparts. Mark Losina?” Jason looked down the table at the petite brunette.

The pretty young politician finished sipping a glass of icewine, then straightened to address the table. “The First Knight is correct. There have been no formal communications from the Falon government for some time,” she said crisply. “However, unofficial reports via the Falon embassy tell me to expect a very positive response from the tax changes, particularly as we approach harvest season. But…,” she trailed off, eyebrows raised.

“But Duke Arias is displeased, right?” finished the queen.

“To say the least,” Losina finished. “But even his outrage pales in comparison to that of the Jall Duchy farmers. There are a number of delegations en route to the Conclave as we speak, ready to level formal complaints against the change in trade policy. As you predicted, my queen.”

“Yes,” Lorrelai replied after sipping her water. “And they have reason to be upset. But this was the correct course of action for now. We need to keep the Falons firmly on our side, Losina.”

“Oh, I agree with you, Queen Lorrelai, I do,” Losina said. “But this is going to cause quite the stir in the Conclave. Several of the larger farming guilds hold a great deal of sway with their Marks. Things could become… difficult.”

“Your political skills are un-paralleled my dear Losina,” the queen replied. “Do your best to keep things under control. Just try to convince them that this is in their best interest as well as ours. They would be the first to suffer if a Mindonite army came flooding down through the CronianPass next season. We need to keep Empress Inverion pacified. For now.”

“I will do my best, my queen,” Losina replied. Her tone was unreadable. Darian had heard stories of the political acumen of this beautiful young woman. She had a hard time imagining her being as cut-throat and dynamic as those stories claimed – she was always so pleasant to be around. But she had been Voice for three Summers now, and her many accomplishments spoke for themselves. The gap between Losina’s reputation and easy-going demeanor worried Darian. She always found herself wondering which was the real Losina.

“That brings me to the most surprising news of the day, my queen–” Jason said, then he paused as a tall, balding old man shuffled into the room with the aid of a bright-white cane and a serving girl. He wore a brown linen robe of many layers over black linen pants. His face was creased and folded with age, and was as pale as the white stone under his feet. He stood straight, however, and his eyes were merry and bright as he made his way over to the table.

“Ah, Oriander! How wonderful of you to come, old friend!” the queen said, rising and walking over to embrace the retired Steward. “I trust you are well? How is the leg?”

“Oh, I’m fine, it’s fine, Lorrelai my dear,” he replied breathily as he returned the hug. “That’s what I get for playing games like that with the young ‘uns, you know. Sure looked fun at the time! But I’ve learned my lesson.”

“Not you, old friend,” quipped Xanad, also rising. “I’d wager my weight in hannon that you’ll be back out on the pitch with the kids in a few weeks!”

“Come sit, I’ll have some fresh breakfast brought out to you,” the queen said as she escorted Oriander to his seat. Darian was pleased to see the retired steward again. He had been in the Royal Cuperative for some weeks now, nursing an injured hip and knee that he damaged during – of all things – a game of catch-ball with the children of several of the cook staff. His wise presence had been missed by Darian’s mother, who had considered him something of a father figure ever since the horrible events of the Six Month War.

Once everyone was back in their seats, Sir Jason continued. “Yoral and I have received updated information, confirmed by Jaymes here, that the rumors we heard of a quarter-legion of Mindonite Regulars moving through the Granite Hills were true. It’s General Karag, one of King Balon’s brightest and best field commanders, and they are marching towards the Highlands as we speak… under a flag of peace.”

The queen’s jaw dropped. The King Regent looked as if he were expecting a punch-line.

“A flag of what?” Lorrelai demanded.

“I repeat, my queen, they fly the green flag of peace at the head of their column. And that’s just the beginning. Yoral?”

The slick-haired, pony-tailed Second Knight of the Touran Protectorates leaned forward, his face taking on a somewhat deeper scowl than usual. Sir Yoral was known as a trustworthy man, an incredible leader, but in Darian’s opinion he lacked a certain… tact… that Sir Jason had in abundance. Darian could not remember even a single pleasant conversation with the accomplished second knight. He always seemed to be on edge.

“Jaymes, do confirm or counter this report as needed, but here are the facts,” Sir Yoral said in his perpetually raspy voice. “My queen, General Karag’s light army, some two-hundred fifty well-armed cavalry, crossed through the Ice Dagger at first thaw at great risk to their lives. They proceeded into the Granite Hills under flag of peace, avoiding all settlements until they neared the valleys near the Kirill springs. The Kirill local patrol had been fighting intermittent skirmishes against roving bands of Mindonite barbarians for some time… as have many towns throughout Jesserin and Palladon. Well, one such skirmish broke out around the same time as Karag’s arrival. No less than seventy-five Mindonite berserkers, my queen, and it was looking bad for the local patrol.

“Then Karag’s men advanced… and destroyed their Mindonite countrymen. They forced the remaining Mindonite barbarians to disarm and surrender… to the Kirill local patrol!”

Jaymes nodded quietly in agreement. Darian was stunned, and she could tell by the expressions on the faces of Oriander, Losina, and her father that she was not alone.

“When questioned by the local Constable, Karag himself said, and I quote, ‘we honor the Treaty of Falanx’. Then turned his horse and marched his troops on towards the east.”

Lorrelai took a drink, shaking her head. Xanad, frowning deeply, engaged the knights. “Jason, Yoral… what does this mean? Do you suspect some ploy?”

“I did at first, my King Regent,” Sir Jason said. “Until they repeated this act. Multiple times.”

“Yes,” Yoral agreed. “This was not isolated. Karag’s men went on to stop and disarm no less than five such groups of Mindonite attackers, killing many who would not back down. All under flag of peace towards Touran.”

“I’m sorry,” interrupted Oriander, stirring his cup of coffee briskly. “But am I missing something? Lorrelai, my dear… is this not good news?”

All eyes turned to the elderly retired steward. He had just the tiniest rise to the corners of his mouth as he spoke, and his eyes were cheerful.

“Balon, foul as he is, has decided to support the Treaty? He is working to stop the barbarians that have harassed Jesserin Duchy? I see you suspect some trick. And with Balon, you should. But in the meantime, has he not just saved the Pathwatch and the local patrols in the area many lives? Surely we monitor, surely we track his troops, but for now this sounds like the best news of the day.”

Lorrelai shared a glance with her husband, then turned to the old steward. “My, have I missed you, old friend. It is good to have you back. Your wisdom humbles me.” She turned to Sir Yoral and Sir Jason. “I assume that Oriander is right? You are having Karag watched, yes?”

“Of course, my queen,” both men replied in unison.

“Jaymes, your thoughts on this development?” asked the queen.

“Queen Lorrelai, I am not a man given to easily trusting his enemies, but in this case I must agree,” here he nodded towards Oriander. “For now, we can support Karag’s troops in their efforts. But we will also use our resources to track all of their movements and associations.”

Darian knew what that meant coming from Jaymes Baron. While his official title was Chief of Security for the Queen, Darian was one of a very few who knew what his real role was in the Protectorates. Baron served as the leader of the secretive Royal Guard Intelligence Service, the covert team of expert fighters who not only saw to the protection of the royal family, but also to the wide-spread network of spies that fed information from all parts of Touran back to the Queen and her Regent. No one ever spoke openly of the RGI; their existence was a secret of the monarchy. So Darian knew that for every knight or Grey Shieldman Sir Jason or Sir Yoral could place to watch the Mindonite ‘peacekeepers’, Chief Jaymes Baron probably had three men in secret doing the same job.

“Very well,” the queen acknowledged. “But I want them watched closely, gentlemen. If one of Karag’s men so much as sneezes in a suspicious way, I want two blades of Shieldmen there to wipe his nose.”

Darian considered this strange move by foul King Balon. Naturally, everyone in the room was very sensitive to developments with the Mindonites, and about Balon in particular, but for Darian and her parents it was worst of all. More than forty Summers had passed since the assassination of Darian’s grandfather King Dellien and grandmother Queen Carra Arion at the beginning of the Six Month war. In some ways her mother the queen had never recovered from the losses of that year.

Despite Balon’s endless denials that he had sent the assassins as part of his invasion force, Darian had spent most of her life secretly yearning for news of the twisted old monarch’s death. Only then, she felt, could she think of MasMindon as anything but a blight on the entire Land of Pasaron.

“Moving on, my friends,” the queen said, waving off a young blonde server who was about to spoon more eggs onto her plate, “I heard that there was a significant break last night on this ‘Trax’ issue.”

Her face stayed perfectly expressionless as she spoke, but Jaymes’ eyes widened noticeably before he could catch himself. At least once a week the queen surprised him with a revelation that she clearly shouldn’t know yet.

“What’s this?” asked Sir Jason. “I have heard nothing.”

“Our queen is very well informed indeed,” Jaymes said, then sipped his apple juice. “Last night, the Southside local patrol under Constable Runyon closed a months-old sting operation. About a dozen thugs were caught in the act of smuggling stolen hannon. Three of the younger captives confessed under questioning to being members of the Trax.”

“So it really is true,” Lorrelai said. “We have some sort of thieves’ guild in Coradis?”

“Yes, my queen. While we have had plenty of rumor and hint until now, this is the first time we have had a detailed confession. The youths agreed to provide us with information and leads in exchange for reduced sentences. That is being worked within the Docket Court as we speak,” finished Jaymes, his quiet voice not betraying what he thought of the news.

“We need to move on this quickly, and aggressively, Lorrelai,” said Xanad. “These things tend to grow quickly, like fads, unless eliminated early.”

“Agreed,” the queen said. “Jason, Yoral, coordinate with Jaymes. Give him every tool he needs to break up this guild before they can grow any more popular.”

“Yes, my queen,” they responded.

“Queen Lorrelai,” Jaymes said, “there is more. Our newest intelligence suggests that the Trax may already have a presence in other cities.”

Lorrelai’s left eyebrow rose. “Really? That suggests that they are rather more developed than you had assumed.” It was not a question.

“Yes. There may be branches in Jalsmin, JesserinCity, and maybe even BrandonCity.”

“’May be’ is not good enough, Jaymes,” she replied, voice growing firm. “A multi-city crime ring? And it’s growing? We need facts, Jaymes. And quickly.”

“Yes, my queen. I will do my best.”

Lorrelai sighed. “Very well. Morton, please proceed with the daily’s?”

That meant it was Morton’s turn to deliver his reports, or “daily’s” as the queen called them even though they weren’t given every day. He presented the general activity list for the day that involved those at the table, any scheduled official arrivals and departures from CoradineCastle, and took requests from the group for changes or additions to any of the above. He then reported on any substantive events or trends in each of the city’s district if they were items that needed the queen’s attention.

He closed with the latest crime reports from across the city, the surrounding Proxim, and across the Touran Protectorates in general. The numbers were horrible, and had been growing increasingly worse for quite some time. Within the city, crime was at an all-time high everywhere except the Banking District. Murders, rapes, arson, burglary, muggings, kidnapping, all were growing in frequency. The prisons were overflowing, the courts swamped.

“With utmost respect to Sirs Jason and Yoral, whose efforts with the Pathwatch are simply supreme,” Morton said, inclining his head respectfully to the two knights, “the Pathwatch and the local patrols are just stretched too thin. We are recruiting at a record rate, but not nearly as rapidly as the criminals.”

A hush fell over the table as the truth of those words sank in. Oriander gazed blankly across the room, Losina stared down into her drink. The knights kept their attention on Morton. Even though these facts were common knowledge with this group of leaders, hearing the truth spoken out loud still brought a chill to the room.

“Well, these things tend to be cyclical,” Oriander said, turning from Morton to address the entire table. “As with diseases, they come and go. Things are certainly bad now, but they will improve in time. They always do.”

Lorrelai just nodded her head, her eyes sad. Darian could feel the emotions that her mother’s expression conveyed. She is wondering, Darian said to herself, if there will be anything left of Touran for me to rule one day. If only she knew that it will not be me who succeeds her…

“I do hope that you are right, dear,” the queen said.

“Sadly, Oriander is wrong this time,” said a deep voice in Darian’s mind.

Her eyes rounded as she gasped and jerked upright in her chair. Everyone turned Darian’s direction at the sudden movement as she felt the blood draining from her face.

“Are you well, Darian?” her father asked.

“I’m fine,” she blurted out instantly, sitting back. “It’s just my head. A little pang. I’ll be okay.” But she fought down the urge to jump from her chair and run. That voice had been far too clear and strong to be her imagination. She knew for certain that no one else heard those words.

“If you need to leave, I understand,” the queen said warmly. “Do you have anything you’d like to add before you go?”

“Relax, Darian,” the voice said. “You are not going crazy. Tell them about Jerine, then excuse yourself. So we can talk.”

Darian took a deep breath and resisted the urge to panic. Stay in rhythm, she told herself sternly.

“I do, mother,” Darian said formally, her voice cracking. She sipped her water with a shaking hand. “As you all know, I leave for Palladon Duchy in three days for my Grey Shields training. Mother, I would like to invite Jerine to accompany me.”

“I was surprised that this wasn’t the plan all along, dear,” the queen replied. “As long as her father approves, I think she is the perfect traveling companion for you.” Her bright blue eyes narrowed as a small grin lit her face. Darian returned the grin briefly and nodded.

“Thank you, everyone,” the queen said, standing and smoothing her robe. The gathering followed her lead and rose to their feet, Oriander taking a few extra seconds to hoist himself up with his cane. “We will convene here again in two days’ time. Be well.”

Darian was the first one out of the chamber. She knew that her mother would soon be seeking details about last night’s incident and her health, but Darian did not think she could handle that conversation in her current state. Her face was a mask of placidity as she nodded to the servants and staff that she passed along the bright corridor, but her mind was sprinting into darkness.

She was truly snapping; instead of months or years of slow degradation as reported for other Emergents, Darian was already completely losing her mind. That voice had seemed so clear and undeniably separate from her own thoughts; there were few more common signs of madness.

Hunlon and Giris stood at attention outside of Darian’s apartment. The burly members of the royal guard saluted smartly with fists to chest as she approached.

“Fellows, I need to get more rest after my incident last night. Please see that I am not disturbed,” Darian said as she passed.

“Yes, your highness,” they replied together.

Morning sunshine streamed through the open windows. The sweet smells of early spring swirled on the bay breezes to mingle with the scent of fresh flowers the cleaning staff had placed all around the anteroom. But Darian noticed neither as panicked worry rose within her. She avoided – she did not even look at – the spot on the gray stone wall through which she knew she must have passed late last night in order to plummet to the courtyard far below.

I wonder how much time I have left? She thought sadly as she collapsed onto her bed. Can I even make it to the Granite Hills?

“You are fine, Darian,” the voice said quietly within her mind. She sprang up from the bed – far too fast given the ache of her bruised forehead. The voice continued. “You are not going mad. And you are not Emergent. Well, at least not in the sense that you are thinking.”

She spun around the room as if expecting the owner of the voice to suddenly appear from his hiding place, but she knew she was alone. This is crazy! she thought. I have to ignore it, right? Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do when you hear voices?

“I understand that this is not easy for you,” the voice said reassuringly. “So I will stay as quiet as possible for now. But things will soon happen that will demand your attention. Try to, as you so often put it, ‘stay in rhythm’. Continue you’re your plan. Trust me, Darian. You are fine.”

Darian sank slowly back down onto her bed, shaking her head in dismay. She had spent so much of her life playing the role of the rebel, rejecting the cloistered life of a crown princess that her parents had tried so hard to foist upon her. But now there could be no doubt; the carefree days of challenging her parents’ authority were over. Indeed, all of her days would soon be over as she rapidly spiraled into insanity.

 

#

 

Jaymes Baron practically jogged down the hallways of Coradine Castle, his two captains close on his heels. He had a busy day ahead of him, and as cordial and relaxed as the queen’s briefings were, they took him away from his ever-pressing duties. First, back to headquarters to read the latest reports from Brandon and Palladon – if they were in on time for a change – then to Southside Prison to monitor the interrogation of these new Trax prisoners.

“Chief Baron! Chief Baron!” called a voice from behind him as he entered the broad, red-paved inner courtyard of the castle. Jaymes turned to see a young, unfamiliar page running his way, frantically trying to get his attention.

“Chief Baron, I was sent with an urgent call from Sir Jason! He seeks an audience with you, at once, sir!”

“Are you certain? I was just in a briefing with Sir Jason.”

“Please, Chief,” the teen said, wiping sweat from his face. “I was told to retrieve you immediately or face having my hide flogged before the entire city. Please!”

Jaymes grinned with one side of his mouth. That did sound like Jason, though he would have delivered the threat with a chuckle. The young never knew how to take the big knight’s sense of humor.

“Where is he?” Jaymes asked.

“He said to meet him near the door to the main dungeons, sir. And he said it was urgent!”

“Relax, my friend. I will endeavor to save your young hide.” Jaymes tousled the boys hair as he passed.

“Urs, Kole, go on ahead. I’ll meet you.” The two captains saluted briskly, then headed for the gate.

A few minutes later, Jaymes entered the long basement corridor that led to the dungeons. He was growing excited; if the Royal First Knight had some information to share that required this level of secrecy, it must be good indeed. Jaymes was feeling the need for some good news.

He turned the last corner before the heavy iron gates – and froze. Someone was standing in the shadows ahead of him, just next to the door. He wasn’t hiding, his boots and the outline of his body were clearly visible by the marsh oil light. But his face was hidden in shadow.

“I have information for you, Point Jaymes,” the man said quietly.

Jaymes blinked hard. “Who are you?” he asked, not revealing his shock that this stranger knew his secret title.

“I am a friend, and an informer. I am someone to whom you must listen. I know that you are not a man given over to trusting strangers, Point. The code word is ‘jack-knife’. The current drop point is warehouse eleven, Rishdan Section, Riverside Docks.”

Jaymes could not hide his shock now. Someone that he did not know at all who knew the current code and drop point? He would have thought it impossible. It was SUPPOSED to be impossible. How did this man even get into the castle? And how did he get that page to report that Sir Jason had sent for him? Mysteries were Jaymes bread and butter, the thing that really drove him. He could tell that this one was going to be extraordinary.

“Very well. I am Point Jaymes Baron, of her Majesty’s Royal Guard Intelligence Service. The return phrase is ‘hannon leaves on the Caroc’s peak’. Who are you? And what is your information?”

“You may call me the Panther. Point Jaymes, there is a very real threat approaching. A threat to the Queen and her family. A threat to all of the Touran Protectorates. You must help to prevent it.”

Jaymes nodded. “You have my full attention.”

As ‘The Panther’ spoke, Jaymes’ eyes grew gradually wider and wider. But he listened intently. Much of it was hard to believe. But if this info was accurate…

“I will need proof. More to go on than just your words, Panther,” Jaymes said after the shadowy man finished speaking. “These claims are… outrageous. To say the least.”

“You will have your proof, Point Jaymes,” the Panther said quietly. “And I will tell you how to get it.”

The Panther stepped forward from the shadows as he gave further instructions, and Jaymes took special notice of the only identifying feature on the man’s black-clad body. The glowing silver gauntlets he wore on each forearm.

* * *

Thanks for reading!

~Kevin

A totally new addition here, friends. One of the solid pieces of advice that I received from an established agent/editor was to dramatically increase the role of my female lead character. I had always planned equal roles for my male and female leads, but the long-and-twisty plot that I originally designed focused on the men dozens of chapters before the women. But no longer.

The Crown Princess Darian Touran is now introduced in Chapter 3… as she is falling to her death from the heights of Coradine Castle. I am tempted to make this scene Chapter 1; I really like how it reads.

Have at it!

* * *

Darian awoke with a start moments before crashing to the floor of the dim flagstone courtyard. She gasped in the cold night air but could not scream as every muscle in her body tensed.

Instinctively, Darian threw her hands before her face, as if hoping to somehow lessen the sudden death that awaited her when she hit. As she closed her eyes for what she knew would be the last time, she still saw the broad western courtyard of the castle stretched out in her mind’s eye. She was plummeting incredibly fast, and therefore must have fallen from very high in the castle. Darian was picturing the courtyard and the tall walls surrounding it with an enormous amount of detail, she realized ironically; shouldn’t she be seeing her life – all twenty Summers of it – flash before her eyes before facing such a brutal death? She then wondered who her killer was and how they had managed to eliminate her. Darian had always known that an assassin would one day bring about her death, but how had they managed this?

Darian felt cold stone on her hands and cried out as her forehead and knees smacked the unforgiving pavement. She rolled onto her back as a wave of dizziness struck. Clutching her forehead and panting as pain shot through her body, she sat up, opened her eyes, and fought to orient herself.

A painful sting stabbed at her eyes. Was it sweat? No… blood ran down the bridge of her nose from the split skin on her forehead. She used the hem of her sky-blue nightgown to clear it away, ignoring her torn knees and toes, then looked around at the deserted courtyard filled with moonlight. The ever-present sea breeze brought the brackish smell of the bay to her nose. She would have to —–

Darian froze as the dizziness faded and her mind snapped back into order. Her eyes widened in shock as she quickly examined herself, patting her face and torso rapidly, and took stock of the obvious truth.

She was alive, and this was no dream. She looked up at the high castle walls looming above her, having no idea what she was expecting to see. Even if there had been windows that could open on the heights of the castle where her apartments were, she would not have been able to spot them by moonlight. She knew very well that there was neither balcony nor battlement on this side of Coradine Castle. There was, in fact, no way in or out of the building above the east-facing Erin courtyard and hadn’t been for nearly forty years.

And yet there Darian sat. Bleeding, confused, and suddenly very, very worried.

An assassin! It must have been! She thought with a mixture of terror and fury. I was pushed, or thrown, from the heights of the castle’s roof. After being drugged maybe?

Darian’s heart sank. She realized that there was another potential explanation for her fall of hundreds of feet from a part of the castle with no easy access to the outside; an explanation that did not involve foul play.

Don’t panic, Darian! Stay in rhythm… stay in rhythm! She repeated to herself as she stumbled to her bare feet. She could hear Sir Jason’s strong voice repeating the words. Stay in rhythm… Stay in rhythm. The knight had drilled Darian since she was a child to focus on the immediate, rejecting distractions of any kind. Keep your mind and body immersed in the rhythm of the moment, he would say, whether it be during combat or the delivery of a speech. Stay in rhythm.

“I have to get back inside,” Darian whispered aloud as she crossed to the inner wall of the courtyard. “I have to stay out of sight, not be noticed… and I have to bandage this wound.”

She put all other thoughts out of her head as she followed the curve of the wall. None of the royal guard had seen her, she was certain, since no alarms had been sounded. Darian tore the left sleeve from her nightgown as she crept towards the Steward’s Foyer on the north side of the castle. That was the only entrance that might be open at this hour. Late night deliveries of food or beverages to the royal kitchens were rare, but not unheard of. If the gate was closed—

Stay in rhythm. Sir Jason’s voice again, his training rising to the surface of her thoughts. One thing at a time. Live in the moment.

Darian tied the long white sleeve around her brow like a sweatband, wincing at the pain of her raw forehead wound.

“Even if I do make it back inside without being noticed, and make it back up the upper floors unseen, how do I explain my wounds?” she whispered into the shadows. “And my bloody knees and toes are likely leaving a trail that anyone–,”

Stay in rhythm.

Darian peered around the castle’s northeast corner, crouching low. There were no guards in sight, but there was also no light streaming forth from the Steward’s Foyer. It was closed.

“Nightwings!” she cursed under her breath, then slid around the corner anyway. As much as she feared it, there was another way to regain entrance to the castle; a way that involved a great deal of risk.

A group of three guards stepped into view from across the Steward’s courtyard, talking quietly. Darian dove behind a stack of barrels just a few feet from the Foyer and held her breath. Her heart was pounding, and her wounds throbbed painfully along with it. Panic began to rise within Darian’s throat.

Stay in rhythm!

The troop walked to within feet of her hiding place, then continued their march into the Erin Courtyard. Darian exhaled, then crept over to the locked ten foot high wooden door that barred passage into the Steward’s Foyer and the kitchens beyond.

Darian placed both hands on the cold wood.

Okay… just like last time. You can do this, Darian, she thought to herself as she leaned harder and harder against the huge door. Blood was beginning to leak through her headband bandage, but she ignored it as she closed her eyes and focused on what she had done one week prior.

You need to get through. You need to get through this door. She pushed with even more intensity, putting all of her weight against the locked portal. You must get through! You must! Then, holding her breath, Darian closed her eyes.

And landed with a thud on the stone floor of the Steward’s Foyer.

Darian gasped as she lay there on the other side of the still-sealed door. Her feet were still not completely through. Her legs simply ended at the surface of the door’s planks, as if they had been cut off. She could feel her feet extending through the solid wood, the night breeze chilling her toes.

With a whimper-like yelp, she yanked both knees towards her chin and rolled to a crouch. Her feet and legs looked fine, as if nothing had happened. As before, Darian had felt nothing while she passed through the solid doorway as if it were made of nothing more than smoke.

Stay in rhythm.

Darian put the impossible act out of her mind and sped across the Foyer, through the empty kitchens, and into the castle proper. She had snuck around the great keep that was her home so many hundreds of times over the years that this part of her adventure posed no challenge. She knew where the guards were stationed, knew who was most likely to be dozing, and knew all of the hidden passageways.

If I can just make it to the back stairs, she thought, and if either Hunlon or Pistarak are on duty and napping…

“Darien, is that you!?” came an intense whisper from the shadows. Darien froze in a crouch, her hand instinctively at her side to grasp the rapier hilt that was not there. Then she realized that the voice was familiar.

“Jerine?” Darian whispered back.

The tall, red-headed Jerine crept out of the gloom and into a shaft of moonlight let in by the narrow windows near the back staircase. She was also in a long nightgown and bare feet.

“Jerine!” Darian cried in a whisper, stepping out to take her friends hand and pull her away from the silvery light. “What are you doing sneaking around without me!”

“What happened to you?” Jerine breathed in a worried whisper. “Were you sleepwalking again? You’re bleeding! Darian, what–,”

“I can’t explain right now,” Darian interrupted quietly but firmly. “Yes, I think I was sleepwalking.” That much was probably true, Darian thought. “I got locked out of the castle. I had to sneak back in. It’s hard to explain.”

Darian couldn’t see her friends face in the darkness, but she could imagine the confused look on her face.

“Locked out? How? Look, nevermind… when we sneak around for fun, that’s all well and good. But you’re hurt! Just go to the guards and let them get a physician! You are the princess! Your mother will not care about some harmless sneaking when your health is–,”

“NO!” Darian breathed furiously. “I can’t. There’s no way.”

Jerine stepped even closer, her voice dropping to an intense whisper.

“What is going on?! You haven’t been yourself in weeks, months even. You know you can talk to me. Tell me what’s happening.”

Darian sighed quietly, realizing that she had little choice. And that she might need help to do what she must do next.

“Okay. But you must promise to tell no one. Especially my mother or any member of the royal guard. Promise me, Jerine. Swear to secrecy, right now, and… and I’ll tell you everything.”

Silence. Darian knew that Jerine was slowly beginning to understand that there was a lot more going on than met the eye. More blood dripped into the young princess’ eye, stinging badly. Her throbbing head and the pain in her knees and toes was getting worse. With a start Darian reconsidered what had happened, and again had to wonder how she could still be alive.

Stay in rhythm.

“Swear it, Jerine Masterson!”

Darian could hear Jerine swallow dryly. When she spoke, her voice was raspy with fear and concern.

“I swear it. I will tell no one.”

Darian sighed again, leaning back against the cool stone wall.

“I leave for Pallas in just a few days,” Darian murmured.

“For your apprenticeship with the Grey Shields. Is there a problem? I know it took you forever to convince your mother to let you go.”

“I’m not just going for the apprenticeship. And I’m not going to actually make it to Pallas. I’m leaving. And not coming back. Ever.”

“Stop it, Darian. Just stop it! That makes no sense at all. What do you mean you’re not coming back? You can’t run away. Where would you go? How would you go? Why would you want to?! Your mother–,”

“I am doing this for my mother,” Darian replied. “And for the good of the Protectorates. I have to go.”

“Why?”

Darian rested her swelling forehead on one hand in the darkness. Then she dropped her voice even lower and leaned toward her old friend.

“Because I am Emergent. Because the Crown Princess of Touran is going insane. And if my mother finds out, she will move the foundations of Pasaron to try to help me. I can’t let that happen.”

The truth of those words stung Darian as she uttered them aloud for the first time. If the Touran Queen’s only child were to die or go missing, by law she would be forced to adopt a new heir. But Darian would soon go mad; all Emergents did, and often violently so. She knew her mother well. It would kill her to replace her only daughter if she still lived. But no Emergent had ever been healed. With all of the other problems plaguing the Protectorates, both foreign and domestic, a leadership crisis could be disastrous.

So Darian would disappear, allowing everyone in Touran to consider her dead. Freeing her mother to do what she must in the name of the kingdom.

Jerine said nothing. Darian found her hand in the dark and led her out into the hallway.

“Follow me back to my rooms. I could use some help with these wounds. And I’ll answer every question you have.”

* * *

Thanks for reading!

~Kevin

Hi, all!

Chapter 2 is a good example of the types of changes I am making throughout THE PROVING. It still tells the story of Argand and Kosin in the mudslide, using their hidden powers to save themselves and their comrades. But it also contains the first appearance of one of the main antagonists, Julian, and displays some of his evil might at work while dealing with the fat thief from the opening line of Chapter 1. Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 2 – Along the Jury

Kosin couldn’t stop laughing despite the chill rain and northerly breezes that had both him and Argand huddled under their waterproof caynspun rain-cloaks as they walked.

“No, Kosin! That’s not what I meant at all! It’s not that she wasn’t pretty,” Argand said, embarrassment ringing in his voice. “She was, well, she was… acceptable… in terms of looks.”

Kosin erupted into another wave of laughter, shaking his head as they sloshed along the muddy Jury Road just west of HaverlinCity. Ten yards ahead off them a wide, wooden wagon pulled by a team of old horses creaked and groaned its slow progress through the rainy haze.

“Acceptable?” Kosin laughed even harder. “Has there ever been a bigger indictment of one woman’s looks than calling her ‘acceptable’? You might as well just come right out and say ‘well below average’!”

“She wasn’t that bad!” Argand said, giving in a little to Kosin’s infectious giggle. “Okay, okay… maybe she was a little bad.”

Kosin howled.

“But that’s not the point,” said Argand, stepping around a large, muddy puddle that might have threatened to pull his boots off. “When it comes down to it, I want to find someone strong, you know? Not a push over, not all demure glances and face-color with no inner spirit.”

Kosin took off his wet gloves and wiped his tearing eyes, still snickering. “Okay, okay, Argand. If you say so. So what are you looking for then, a Dramini warchief? You want a woman who can, and does, pretty much beat you up every day?”

Argand snorted. “Not exactly. Well, not at all! I dunno… I just think I will know her when I find her.”

Argand kept smiling after that exchange. It was the most they had laughed in weeks. The frequency of trouble that they had endured since leaving the Highlands had been wearing on them, with bandits and even a few encounters with Mindonites keeping them on edge. Their most recent encounter in the pithwood had been far too close of a call for either of their tastes.

But coming across Roca the lamp trader on his way back to the east from the Granite Hills had been a boon. Although the wrinkled, white-haired old trader already had four guards on detail, he was quick to offer fifty weight of silver each – plus meals – to Argand and Kosin for their services. He had clearly been hearing rumors about increased crime along the western roads. The sound of an empty wagon meant a trader with full money pouches; a surefire target for highwaymen.

The last several days were had been uneventful. The four original guards, middle-aged men that had probably worked on local patrols most of their lives, kept to themselves well ahead of the wagon while Argand and Kosin brought up the rear of the procession. Each night, the group of men slept in the bed of the wagon while two at a time stood watch along the edges of their camp.

On several occasions Argand had sensed approaching bandits while on watch, fluttering pulses of energy in his legs solidifying into life-like images in his mind, but none of them had attacked. Also easing their jobs as trader’s escorts was the proximity of this stretch of the Jury Road to the Kirill River. As they walked, the road’s edge was sometimes only a few feet from the steep banks of the muddy flow. While this sometimes made Roca nervous as he guided his horses, it meant that there would be no bandits sneaking up on them from that side.

“So what about you?” Argand said. “Whatever happened between you and little Kalia Linon? For a while there I thought you were going to put our plans aside and settle down with her in JesserinCity – maybe open up a new outlet for your dad’s shop.”

“No… it wasn’t meant to be,” Kosin answered, pulling his hood down further as the rain grew more intense. “You know I could never settle down in Jesserin. Kalia is a great girl, no doubt about it, but her future is all planned out in her mind. Begin managing her dad’s bakery, build out and expand, then take over the Land via baked goods! There was no way I could sign up for that.”

Argand pictured the buxom blonde girl that had lived just a few doors down from Kosin. On one of Argand’s father’s many visits to Jesserin City, which always included a stop by the Fletcher’s for a visit and a meal, Argand had met Kalia and her family. She was the daughter of the man known as perhaps the greatest baker in all of the Touran Protectorates, and she had been smitten with Kosin for years.

“How did she take the news that you were leaving?” Argand asked. “That couldn’t have gone well.”

Kosin sighed. “I didn’t tell her.”

“What?”

“I couldn’t! You met her once, you know how she was.” His frown deepened. “I really should have just faced her, told her my plans, but in the end… I just left her a note.” There was a hint of pain in Kosin’s voice, the laughter gone.

He continued. “I told her to find someone else, someone who could share her dreams, and to take good care of herself. And left it on her desk at the back of the bakery. She probably pitched a royal fit, truth be told! But she will be better off for it.”

Argand watched as a train of a dozen or so large wagons rolled past them on their left, heading westward towards the mountains. If they had not been so close to HaverlinCity now, Roca doubtless would have stopped the passing traders and asked them about conditions ahead. But the road markers they had recently passed told them that they would likely make it into the town before nightfall. That meant payment from Roca, cold ale, hot food, and sleeping on a warm, dry bed for the first time in a great while. Argand grinned in anticipation. He had been unable to shake the chills of early Spring for the past few days.

“But if we succeed,” Kosin added, turning to look at Argand through the folds of their hoods, “if we actually succeed at going on Venture and surviving, and bring back the head of some wyvern or tamrof, and we become knights? She would come with me, I think. As much as she loves the bakery, loves her father… if I were Sir Kosin Fletcher, I’d bet she would give it all up to come with me.”

Another line of oncoming carts passed them on the left. Roca called out for them to make way; they were crowding much too close for comfort on the narrow mud road. The wagon was dangerously close to the steep edge of the river bank.

“But I won’t do it,” Kosin said. “I couldn’t do it. There was just something missing between us, you know? Something always seemed not quite right. Close… but not close enough. Does that make any sense?”

But Argand wasn’t listening. A cold pit had formed at the bottom of his stomach, and an icy stab of near panic sent shock waves through his body.

Something was wrong. They were in danger.

At that moment, a twenty foot long section of the river bank beneath the right side wheels of Roca’s wagon collapsed in a rush of wet mud.

“Roca!” Argand yelled, running up to the rear of the wagon.

Roca quickly took stock of the situation, and screamed for his four guards to drop back to the rear and help push as he began frantically whipping and calling his horse team to pull. The big wagon stopped and was tipping, teetering above a twenty-five foot drop into the cold and rushing waters of the Kirill.

The four older guards joined Argand and Kosin at the back of the wagon and pushed for all their worth in the slippery mud. The oldest of the guards, Renald, lined up closest to the collapsed river bank, and providing little lift as he fought to find purchase for his feet.

“Renald, get out of there!” Argand yelled through the sheets of rain. The wind began to pick up as well, driving into their faces as they strained against the wagon.

“No, I’m fine!” He yelled back.

“A weight of gold to each of you if you get ‘er clear!” said Roca, fighting to be heard through the rain and wind. But Argand needed no extra motivation. All of the group’s belongings, save swords and cloaks, were in their packs in the back of the wagon. Plus losing Roca’s wagon would mean earning no pay once they reached HaverlinCity.

More wet earth broke away next to them. Argand heaved against the wagon while sinking shin deep in the mud that now formed the edge of the river bank.

With a desperate yell, Renald lost his footing, slid down the slope, and plunged into the river.

Renald’s cries for help pierced the sounds of the downpour, the shrieking calls of Roca, and the grunts of the men. A crack of thunder split the afternoon air. Argand glanced down to his right at Renald as he thrashed and pulled against the liquid mud, but he had already sunk up to his armpits as he was slowly pulled out into the current of the deep river. Nightwings!, Argand thought. He’s wearing his mail shirt. He’s too heavy to escape the mud and water. Can he get it off in time?

The horses were pulling for all their worth as Roca stood on his wagon seat to urge and whip them on. Argand, Kosin, and the three other guards lifted with all their might, but the wagon was just too heavy and off balance. It began to slip down the slope.

Argand felt the earth beneath him begin to dissolve in the thundering downpour. More of the bank was giving way, and his lifting efforts were pushing him straight down. He was up to his knees in the slowly dissolving mud, and within seconds would be sucked down the bank into the bog like Renald. He couldn’t extract his feet, every motion pulling him deeper. Panic set in.

“We’re losing her!” Kosin called out as the wagon shifted right again. The horses were growing tired. They were out of time.

“We need to bail out, boys,” the guard next to Kosin said. Another massive peal of thunder rolled over them. “It’s too late.”

Suddenly the mud lurched downward, and Argand began to fall.

NO! he screamed to himself, digging for more strength. No! I have to get sound footing!

And suddenly there were the pulses.

He had almost forgotten them in the strain of the moment. The flowing surge through his feet raced into his mind, and he could suddenly see everyone around him clearly despite the gale. The five soaking wet men giving their all at the rear of the old, empty wagon; the wrinkled old trader, terrified of losing his cask of gold, his wagon, and his team of horses to a mudslide; the slender but muscular man in the distant shadows wearing the silver, almost shimmering gauntlets, his black cloak flapping in the stormy gusts. And something else. Something that felt solid and strong, rising towards his feet from depths below the wet ground. He focused on that solid feeling, which was strangely familiar, and a heartbeat later he felt solid rock under his feet. Solid rock that was rising slowly but inexorably upward.

Argand could feel the stone, and in his mind’s eye he could see it in the mud below him; an impossibly broad shelf of solid rock, lifting them all as if a giant’s hand were buried deep in the earth with no other purpose but to shore up their steps. Soon the wagon began to rise as well, its back wheels suddenly supported.

The wagon lurched forward as the horses’ hooves suddenly hit stone just an inch or two below the mud, and seconds later Roca had the wagon safely on the far side of the road. Just as the guards and Kosin stepped out of the now shallow mud near the high river bank, Argand remembered.

“Renald!”

The men spun to the rushing river but saw no sign of Renald. Then a hand broke the surface frantically some fifty or sixty feet off shore and even further downstream to their left. It quickly disappeared below the surface.

But Argand knew where Renald was. The pulses were still there, coursing through his legs in a torrent as strong as the rain, and through them he could make out the faint image of Renald’s body floundering under the murky surf.

He did not hesitate. Argand discarded his soaked cloak and outer shirt, then yanked off his slate colored chain mail and tossed it to the ground. Turning to Kosin, Argand unclasped his sword belt

“I’m going to need your help,” Argand said simply. “I can get to him, but you are going to have to get us back out.”

Kosin’s brow furrowed, but he nodded once as he took the offered sword and sword belt.

“What? What’re you doing?” asked Roca as he approached, staring in disbelief at Argand. “You can’t save him, man. He’s gone… lost. It’s suicide to–,”

Roca stopped, his jaw slack, as Argand dove off of the bank with a powerful bound and plummeted into the river.

 

#

 

“Rope,” called Kosin as he ran upstream, scanning the ground. Opren, who was the youngest of Roca’s three original guards, sprinted over to the wagon. He returned with a large coil of spring rope which he tossed to Kosin.

Roca and the other guards were staring out into the wind and rain-beaten river, but Kosin didn’t look. He knew that Argand was stroking for all of his worth towards Renald’s position. And he knew that he had to be ready to help them.

Kosin finally found what he was looking for; a fallen tree branch, about five feet long. He quickly tied the rope to the wider end of the branch.

“Mate,” said Opren in his Falon accent, shaking his soaked head and squinting in the rain. “It’s too late. Renald’s gone, and your friend is already way too far out to reach.”

Kosin ignored him. There was no sign of either man, so he decided to just guess at their location. He took a few quick steps backward, then trotted toward the bank with the branch held back like a javelin. He planted his left foot and heaved the branch into the open air above the Kirill, high and arching, with the spring rope trailing behind it like a streamer as it rapidly uncoiled from the ground.

The branch hit the water point down and plunged below the surface.

“Grab the end,” said Kosin calmly as the rope fell limp along river and earth. He picked it up himself and got a firm grip. Roca, Opren and the other guards, bearded Flint and short, stocky Eron, didn’t move.

Then the rope went taught, leaping out of the water.

Opren’s eyes went wide. He dove onto the rope as the others followed. They pulled in unison, then began running westward along the muddy road, quickly bringing first Renald’s then Argand’s heads into view. Argand had his arms wrapped around Renald’s chest and held the spring rope and branch in clinched fists right in front of Renald’s face. Coughing and sputtering, the two mud-soaked men were hauled up the smooth, low cliff of the river bank.

Renald lay face down in the muck, coughing and vomiting as Opren leaned onto his back, forcing the filthy water out of his lungs. Kosin saw that Renald had managed to take off his cloak and boots after falling in, but he still wore his chain mail shirt. Argand seemed fine, however, if soaked and filthy. He knelt beside Renald and assisted Opren. Roca’s wrinkled face was as white as his hair. Flint and Eron were staring incredulously from Kosin to Argand to Renald and back again, speechless.

“I have good aim,” Kosin said, grinning at them all. “Thanks for the rope.”

#

Two hours later, Roca’s wagon rolled past a series of large family farms that marked the outskirts of HaverlinCity. The rain and storms had given way to the sun, but it seemed to Argand that the chill in the air had grown stronger. He hoped he wasn’t getting ill from the wet weather and his swim in the Kirill.

“I tell you, it’s just not natural, mates,” Said Opren again, his voice insistent. “You felt it, Flint. You too, Eron. Stone doesn’t just grow up out of the ground like a burbin tree in Summer! That wagon was lost, mates… there weren’t nothing there but mud. Then all of the sudden–”

“And I told you that Kosin and I didn’t feel anything odd, Opren,” Argand lied coolly. “We just finally shifted the wagon onto that firm rock area. The horses get all of the credit.”

The five healthy men walked along next to the open rear gate of the wagon, while Renald sat on the wooden slats of the bed. He looked exhausted, coughed uncontrollably, and had developed a fever. It was tremlung, a treatable but still very dangerous disease common to those who survived drowning. He would need medical attention and a dose of hannon very soon.

“And then that throw, mates? Dropping that branch like a war-spear exactly where Argand could find it?” Opren continued, undeterred.

“No, no,” said Renald, taking a long drink from a water skin to help quiet his cough. “No, it was way more amazing than that, Opren, like I said it was. I couldn’t see anything! That muddy flow was pitch black at one inch under the surface. I was done for, given up, I tell ya,” then he stopped for another coughing fit.

“Sinking, drowned, done for,” Renald said as he shook his head and shrugged. “But there I was, still reachin’ for the surface, prayin’ for help. And then Argand’s arms were around me, holding me up as if I were naught more than a small child. Next thing I knew, we were being hauled up onto the bank. Incredible.”

“Like I said, the credit for the throw goes to Kosin,” Argand said. “The branch splashed in right near me, so all I had to do was grab it.”

“Men,” Kosin said, “I have always had good aim. It was a lucky throw. Anyone might have made it.”

Then Eron, the youngest of the four original guards at around forty Summers, spoke up for the first time that afternoon.

“You’re not saying that they’re Emergent, Ren. Right?”

A heavy silence fell. Argand’s throat tightened as he fought to keep his expression unchanged. Only the creaking of the wagon could be heard for a full three heartbeats. Then Renald exploded.

“Nightwings, no, Eron! That’s not what I’m saying at all. They just saved my LIFE, for Creator’s sake. Who ever heard of a mad Emergent doing something like that?” Then a wave of deep, wet coughs took his voice away as Eron waved his hands and shook his head vigorously.

“I’m just making sure, that’s all,” Eron said. “No, I don’t think they are either. It’s just… it’s just that you hear so many stories nowadays, you know?”

Argand was prepared to launch into more denials, but Roca halted his horses at that moment and jumped down from the wagon seat. They were at the west gate of the walled city of Haverlin, and as was tradition, Roca would pay and release them before crossing the town’s threshold.

“Much obliged to the each of ya, sirs. Much obliged,” Roca said. “I’ll be here in town for about a week. If any of you are looking for another route, I’ll be headin’ east for Coradis. I’d have you all, frankly. Same rate, Same deal. If so, look me up. I’ll be at the Green Maiden Inn, near the wharf.” While he addressed them, his eyes lingered on Argand and Kosin.

They shook hands all around and began to separate, but Renald held Kosin’s hand for an extra moment as he looked at Argand. The older man’s eyes were wet, his voice shaky.

“I owe you my life, young men. I don’t know how you did it, but I am in both of your debt. You ever need anything, you look me up. I am always in and around the Jury or Cayn Roads on duty, but I live back in Oakbridge. Look me up, men, you hear me?”

He broke into another fit of coughing, almost doubling over.

“You take care of yourself, Renald. I’m sure we’ll cross paths again,” Kosin said, then joined Argand to pass through the west gate and into Haverlin. They were waved in by an imposing group of Haverlin local patrolmen without inspection or comment. Argand did a double-take at an official-looking sign posted on either side of the open gateway. EMERGENTS ARE A PUBLIC THREAT. REPORT THE UNUSUAL TO THE HAVERLIN LOCAL PATROL. Heaving a sigh and pointedly not looking at Kosin, Argand crossed the threshold.

The marsh-oil lit evening streets were bustling with activity. Vendors lined the avenue near the gate, still hawking their wears despite the late hour. Boots and caynspun shirts, dried peppers and sweet fruits imported from Cronia, hats of every type, small weapons, light shirts of mail, it was all available within a few feet of the Haverlin threshold. Argand looked longingly at the expensive travel wear and accessories.

With a shudder, Argand drew his cloak tight around his torso. He was convinced that he must be coming down with a cold due to all of the Spring rains and his swim in the Kirill.

“You too?” Kosin said.

Argand cocked an eyebrow. “You’re feeling cold? I figured it was just me. I hope we’re not both getting sick.”

“It’s really not surprising,” Kosin said. “We haven’t exactly been keeping dry and warm.”

They passed out of the gate’s market area and turned right onto Fish Street, one of the main thoroughfares across HaverlinCity’s hilly expanse. Fish Street split the city in half, circling right around the Mayor’s mansion at the center of town, then continued to the wharf along Lake Haverlin. It was going to be difficult to convince Kosin to dip a little deeper into their money pouches in order to stay at an inn close to the city center. Kosin hated spending money on pretty much anything, but given miserable conditions they had endured and the powerful chill he was feeling, Argand desperately wanted fine lodgings.

“So what really happened back there, Argand?” Kosin said suddenly. “The rock really did grow. ‘Like a burbin tree’, as Opren put it. I felt it, and I know you did too.”

“Kose, you know I have no idea. I thought I was dead. The whole bank was giving way; I was trapped past my knees in the muck with the wagon practically falling on me. I couldn’t have escaped. I had no way out.”

He paused in front of a fruit vendor and handed over two weight of silver for a bag of beautiful, bright oranges.

“Then the pulses hit me again, out of nowhere,” Argand continued. “And I could feel the stone, the rock itself, moving up beneath me. I don’t know how it happened, but thank the Creator it did.”

Argand tossed his old friend an orange, and they both began to eat as they walked.

“I wasn’t thinking about stone or rock. I didn’t do anything or think anything at all, except for how desperately I needed firm footing,” Argand said. “I could feel it, but I don’t know if I actually did it.”

“And there was something else,” Argand added quietly, his eyes scanning the crowd. “Remember back in the pithwood when I thought there was one more thief than there really was? You were waiting for the last guy to pop up and attack us, but I told you that the last person I had sensed was gone? That last man was way far off, and sort of hidden, but I saw him. He was a smallish man in mostly black, except for shimmering, almost glowing silver gauntlets. He was just standing there, facing me, still as a statue, holding a sword that kind of resembled a spear… then he was gone.”

Argand turned to catch Kosin’s eyes. “I saw him again during the mudslide. For a fleeting second, there was the man in the silver gauntlets off in the distance. And afterward, once we were all clear, nothing. No sign of him.”

“Are you sure it was the same man?”

“Positive. There’s something different about seeing someone ‘this way’,” he pointed to the side of his head, “versus seeing with the eyes. I think I would know him anywhere now. Whoever he is.”

Kosin frowned. “So you think we’re being followed.” It was not a question.

Argand shrugged. “I guess so. Either that or I am just imagining the guy. I don’t know.”

A pack of men on horseback raced past them at that point, forcing them to give way. They wore the white berets of the Haverlin local patrol, and they were racing towards the center of the city.

“So what about you?” Argand continued. “How did you possibly hit an invisible moving target in the middle of a rushing, muddy river, with a stick weighted down with a hundred feet of spring rope?”

“Like I told the old mercenaries, Argand. I have good aim.” Kosin took a big bite of his peeled orange, turned to Argand and grinned.

“You know that’s not enough of an explanation, right?”

“Yup. Now let’s get dinner and some sleep.”

Argand sighed as he wrapped his cloak even tighter against the inexplicable chill. Once again he reminded himself that they both seemed fine, perfectly stable. And if that changed, if either of them seemed to lose grip on reality and begin to turn into a murderous Emergent, the other would act to make sure that no one was harmed. They were counting on the fact that they were unlikely to snap at the same time if indeed the worst came to pass.

 

#

 

The central market of Jesserin City was packed with early morning vendors and price conscious shoppers hoping to take advantage early-morning specials. The morning air was cool and crisp, and a thick layer of clouds rolling in from the Black Mountains promised that more mid-Spring rains were on the way.

But neither the shoppers nor the weather were on Turog’s mind. Every vendor’s call seemed to split his head, each clinking weight of gold or silver made his pulse pound in his temples, and all he could think about was downing a half-barrel of ale and sleeping for a week.

That is, he thought, an unwholesome grin splitting his face, AFTER I collect the rest of my pay.

Turog stumped and pounded his way around the broad expanse of the market, finally stopping to lean against a stone wall near the front of a small florist shop at the southwest corner of the square. His ponderous girth was not exactly easy to hide, but he did his best to look inconspicuous anyway. He made a show of adjusting the straps on his pack while checking to see if he had been followed. It was pointless, he knew. He had covered his tracks completely. A few weights of silver in the right hands had made sure that several of his thieving crew hadn’t made it out of the Oern cuperative. Then a few more weights had ensured that a midnight raid along the Cayn Road had eliminated the few men on his crew that remained. But one could never be too sure.

He hoisted his pack and leaned against the wall, head hung low as if he were a common derelict on a street corner. Once he had counted one hundred passers-by, he ducked into the dark alley next to the florist and broke into a jog that made his head throb horribly.

Is it natural to have a headache for this long? He thought as he turned right, then left, then right again to wind his way deeper into the warren of back alleys just off of the market square. I might need some hannon. Of course, in a few minutes I will be able to afford all the hannon I need.

He passed a few shopkeepers hauling sacks of goods or trash into the alleys, circled a few empty light wagons, and finally stopped at a black door at a dead end. Looking closer, he noticed that it wasn’t just black. It was impossibly, perfectly black. Like the darkest corner of a closed grave brought to life in the shape of a door. No handle, no markings of any kind, marred its emptiness.

He wiped the sweat from his brow with the filthy back of his hand, almost blacking out from the pain behind his eyes. But he grinned through the pain. This was the spot. He could almost smell the wealth he was about to acquire.

He knocked on the black door, a special pattern that he had been taught when he accepted this job working for the Trax. While he did not like the inevitable strings that always came with working for the expansive crime syndicate, Turog had heard of many common thieves cashing in big by working for them. Now it was his turn.

The door did not feel like wood; his fist produced a dull wet sound as if her were beating wet earth instead of a hollow echo. While curious, Turog resisted the urge to touch the door further. He had the distinct feeling that something bad would happen if he did. So instead, he waited.

Minutes passed. Turog began to sweat, despite the chill in the air. Come on, he thought. If I went through all of this pure hell for nothing…

“Speak,” a low voice whispered from behind him.

Turog spun around, then toppled as a cascading dizziness struck him. He fell to one knee, gasping as he fought to clear his vision.

“Yes, kneeling is appropriate,” the voice said with a calm amusement. “What is the key?”

The man was young, certainly no more than 20 Summers old, which shocked Turog. He was very tall, square jawed and shouldered, and suddenly seemed very familiar. Turog must have seen this youth before. He again wiped an amazing amount of dirt onto his head from the back of his befouled hand.

“The Dead Pass,” Turog said in a near-whisper, giving the pass key as he had been taught. “I was told to meet a man called the Vulture. Are you his messenger? I don’t want a middle man, son–,”

He stopped short, suddenly confused. He could not rise from his squat, no matter how hard he tried. His knee felt fused to the stone alley floor. Dropping his hands to the pavement, he strained until he swooned. Turog could not move.

“What is this!?” he cried, looking up into the stranger’s dark eyes. “How are you doing this?! Who–”

“I am Julian,” the young man said quietly, coldly. “The Vulture is one of my servants. And as I said, kneeling before your betters is appropriate.”

Turog swallowed hard, his pulse echoing within the confines of his skull in a painful cascade of sound. His clouded thoughts raced as many of the rumors and stories of the past few years leapt to mind. Stories of the inexplicable, stories of magic. Stories of Emergents.

Turog grew afraid. The corpulent thief quickly decided to change his approach.

“I think ah found what yer looking fer, master Julian, sir,” he said quietly. His voice had gone dry. He tried to clear his throat, but the moisture wouldn’t come. “’Bout a week or so ago, ya see. My crew and ah, we were trackin’ some good hits movin’ east along the Jury. Easy pickin’s mostly, ya know, master, sir. Small wagon trains, lone ‘orsemen, anythin’ looking like it might be both easy an’ cheap, ya know–,”

“Get to the point,” Julian said abruptly, with a note of finality that made Turog’s heart skip a beat as he knelt. The stone under his knee and hands began to feel unnaturally cold.

“Right, surely, right, sorry, master Julian, sir,” Turog stumbled, bowing his head repeatedly and again wiping his aching brow. “Errr… maybe if we could go inside, we can sit an’ ah can tell ya the whole long story—“

“The. Point.”

“Yes sir, master Julian sir!” Turog tried to let himself simply topple over, but whatever held him would not let him fall. He pressed on.

“Ya see, we was about twelve strong, workin’ our way along the Jury, an’ we came across these two young bucks. All alone, ‘bout dawn. Not forty summers if ya added ‘em both together. Well, they whooped us! Knocked me clean out, broke a bunch a my crews arms, then the lil’ one… er, sorry, master, sir, the one with the sword was big and tall, and the one with the throwin’ knives was short and lil’… well, the lil’ one was a hidin’ who-knows-where up in the pith trees, see, and split the hands of half-a-dozen of my men with throwin’ knives from so far away ya couldn’t believe it! Now this same crew, master, sir, we’ve taken troops of fifteen to twenty men when we caught ‘em unawares. An’ ah had bow hunters, too! Good shots, they were, but none good enough t’get those two. If that don’t sound like young ‘uns with ‘special skills’ like ya wanted, ah don’t know what does.”

Turog noted a change in Julian’s expression. The young man’s eyes widened and his brows rose. The thief took this as a good sign. He once again imagined the weights of gold that would soon lay at his feet. “What’s more, master Julian, sir,” he continued, “Not a man was killed, ya here me! Just like The Vulture said, they din’t kill a one of us. Now, how’re two young pups like that gonna be that good? They fit the bill, master, sir. If those two ain’t Emergent, then nobody in all of Pasaron is! Uh… not that there is a thing wrong with bein’ Emergent, master, sir. Anyways, I reckon they’d have made it to Haverlin by now. Oh, and the big one? He gave his name. Argand, of Eagle’s Reach.”

Turog noted the edge of intensity in Julian’s youthful eyes. The young man looked like a burglar who was about to make a tremendous score.

“What did he look like?” Julian asked quietly.

It hit Turog at just that moment. “Well, come ta mention it, master Julian, sir, he, uh… he kinda reminds me of you. Sir. Like the two of ya could be kin to each other. Crazy as that sounds.”

Turog’s skull was pounding; the huge knot on the top of his head from that sword pommel hurt worse than ever. The angry red scar that ran down the front of his face seemed to want to split open. There were spots in the corners of his vision, and his legs and arms were cramping terribly in his forced crouch.

But it was finally time to get paid.

“Well done,” said Julian with a smile.

Turog licked his lips, and risked a smile. “That’s two-hundred weight of gold, right, master Julian, sir?” he asked.

“It is worth more than that. Much more.”

The fat thief’s smile suddenly faded as he felt the stone beneath him shift, soften. His eyes widened in horror as his hands and knees began to sink into the solid stone as if it were marshland mud.

“Remain quiet,” Julian said calmly as Turog began to struggle and buck against his descent with all of his might. And at those words, the guttural scream that was about to escape from Turog’s lungs evaporated into a whimper. The cold stone filled him with pain and stillness as it swallowed him whole. The last thing he saw before his eyes sank below the solid cobbles was a small grin on Julian’s chiseled face.

A moment later, Julian stood alone in the quiet alley, considering what he had just learned. He turned to the black doorway.

“Did you get all of that, my teacher?”

“Yes indeed, Julian,” came an aged voice from the black door. “We have found them. But again, you may by no means seek a confrontation. That time has not yet come.”

“I understand, my teacher. I will be patient.”

“Return to your brothers and let them know of our success. I will alert you when you are needed again.”

The black door’s color began to fade. A slick of inky film, suddenly freed from whatever force had held it, drained downward into the dark shadows of the threshold. Julian now stood before a perfectly normal oaken portal.

“Tomas, I am ready to return,” Julian said to the open air. Then he vanished utterly, with neither sound nor flash, leaving no trace that anyone had visited the alley at all.

* * *

Thanks for reading!

~Kevin

Hello, all!

Back to the beginning we go. Chapter 1 has not changed much… mostly just updates to setting descriptions and a general tightening-up of the text (I am a rampant adverb abuser). Argand and Kosin are still battling brigands in the woods, surviving through the use of the same super-powers which have them fearing for their sanity. I will re-post Chapter 2 later today.

* * *

Chapter 1 – Pithwood

Argand only raised an eyebrow as the corpulent, black-bearded brigand slowly drew a rusty scimitar from the sheath at his waist. The thief had pig-like eyes and wore an angry red scar across his forehead. He looked like the kind of man who was accustomed to drawing blood.

The hawk-nosed man to the brigand’s left and the younger man with the pock-marked face to his right both took the cue and drew their short swords. Behind them two other thieves, black hooded and menacing, bared their weapons.

“Here now,” the fat bandit said in a gravelly voice, “let’s not make doin’s get ugly, young masters.”

He pointed the curved blade at Argand, standing tall and expressionless ten feet away across the small clearing, then at the shorter, stockier form of Kosin next to him.

“Ain’t no need for ya to get hurt, y’know,” he continued as a toothless grin appeared through his matted beard, “just toss yer weapons and toss yer gold, and we’ll call it smooth. Toss ’em now!”

It was a half hour after dawn on a cloudy, cool Spring morning that carried the smell of approaching rain. White smoke drifted upward from the amber remnant of the campfire. Argand and Kosin’s tents lay behind them, only partially bundled.

Glancing to his right, Argand saw that Kosin looked alert but unworried. Argand briefly thought about how unusual this was. Two travelers, both a few weeks less than twenty Summers old, surrounded by thieves in an isolated wood… and neither of them were afraid.

“I am Argand Mason of Eagle’s Reach,” Argand said in a commanding voice as he turned back to the thieves. “I will give you one chance. Leave us. Now. And I can promise you will not be injured. This is certainly more than you deserve, cutpurse. Go.”

Argand knew his wavy black hair and clothes were disheveled, and that he looked like a man suddenly roused from sleep – which he was. But he spoke as if he were a king passing judgment, addressing the bandits as if he fully expected them to back down.

And they nearly did. The fat thief hesitated. A look of confusion crossed his face and the tip of his scimitar dropped to the ground.

Alarmed, the pock-marked thief forced a mocking laugh to cover his leader’s hesitation. The others shook their heads and smiled mockingly. The fat thief, now recovered from his momentary lapse, quickly hefted his blade.

“O’ reeeally???” he drawled, stepping closer. “Now, lemme see, Eagles-Reachling. You, tall as ya might be, holdin’ maybe twenty-five summers in the Land? And yer wee-short companion there with ya? And yer gonna… uh… let US go unhurt??? When it’s five on two? Mighty bold words, don’t ya think?!”

“Let’s just take these fools, Argand,” muttered Kosin under his breath, “they’re common cut-throats. We can beat them easily enough.” Kosin was almost a foot shorter than his broad-shouldered friend, with thick black hair and green eyes. He was very muscular for his size, broad in the chest and thick across the shoulders, and spoke in a quiet, flowing voice while standing ever-so-slightly on the balls of his feet.

“We can take them,” agreed Argand quietly, “it’s the eight men that have crept up behind us in the brush that concern me, Kosin.”

Kosin’s eyebrows climbed up his forehead as his widening eyes darted around the clearing. Argand kept his face frozen, feeling the presence of all of the brigands through his feet as always. Every step, every shuffle, every pause… he could feel all of their movements, their very presences, through the ground itself when people were this close. It took very little effort for him to differentiate the pulses in the ground and pick out the eight hidden assailants and their movements. He still wasn’t sure exactly when he had realized that the odd sensations actually meant something, that they were so very useful. During these recent weeks of eastward travel towards Coradis City along the crime-ridden Jury Road, he was sure the tell-tale pulses had saved his life repeatedly.

The lead thief had heard Argand. The grin faded from his face, replaced by a puzzled frown that made the scar on his forehead bulge grossly.

“How…??? Ya couldn’t possibly know!” he sputtered. Face darkening to a scowl, he raised the scimitar to attack position.

“Well, then, young tho ya are, I guess we’ll be havin’ to do this the hard way!”

“Ummm, Argand?” muttered Kosin under his breath, “thirteen men? We have been pretty lucky before, but…,”

“RUN!” Argand breathed at Kosin as he took off at a full sprint to his right. He bounded over the dying embers of the fire and sped into the brush with Kosin just a step behind.

The five thieves took off in pursuit, and the grunts and exclamations from the nearby woods confirmed what the pulses revealed; the rest of the bandits had joined the chase.

Argand angled sharply left through the dense undergrowth and occasional thin trunks of burbin trees, his long legs pumping in the chill morning air. Kosin was faster, though, and soon was right at his side.

“Get ready,” Argand said, swatting saplings from before his face and leaping over a few deadfalls. “A few of these slime are mounted and circling around this brush… we can’t outrun them.”

Kosin slid and bounded along smoothly, much more like a shadowy blur than a man. He had a much easier time leaping over obstacles and weaving his way among the woodlands than Argand did, and it wasn’t solely due to his smaller size.

“Okay, up ahead,” breathed Argand as he saw a large group of mature pith trees, their trunks as wide as a horse is long. There was very little undergrowth between the piths due to the lack of light under their towering canopies. Argand had felt the presence of the pithwood moments after he had started running.

The sounds of horses and men drew closer as Argand and Kosin broke out of the brush and into the grove of ancient trees.

“You climb and cover me,” called Argand. But Kosin was clearly already of the same mind as he ran straight for a sap-stained black trunk.

Kosin said nothing. He rarely spoke during their recent encounters with brigands, cutthroats, and other diverse miscreants all over Jesserin duchy. He leapt at the base of the largest pith tree in his line of sight and hit it hard, letting his fingers find the natural cracks and crags in the rough surface while his toes instantly found purchase beneath him. He sped up the tree almost as fast as he had been running a moment before.

To Argand, this was nothing new. Kosin Fletcher had been climbing trees, walls, rocks, and just about anything else vertical since they were both children. But lately, the feats he had been able to achieve had defied description. He seemed to have perfect balance and immeasurable agility, especially when he needed it most. It was unnatural, they both knew. As was Argand’s ability to ‘see’ via the pulses he sensed in the ground.

Argand slowed, glancing back to watch Kosin as he reached the canopy and bounded out onto a large branch. Kosin squatted low, balancing easily, while he drew several of the razor-sharp, hilt-less throwing knives he carried. He had two dozen of the six-inch long weapons hidden amongst the folds of his cloak and clothing, each held in place by a thin leather sheath lined with steel. The short man was practically invisible in the dim pithwood canopy, seeming to fade right into the shadows.

Argand saw a small clearing in the wood dominated by a group of short, wide stumps of pith trees that had been felled by loggers years before. Crouching behind the largest stump and closing his eyes, Argand focused on the peculiar, pulse like surges and read them as if he were scanning a book. Through the sensations he could tell that the horses had stopped, the riders now on foot, and that his earlier count had been accurate; he and Kosin were powerfully outnumbered. Argand knew it would take some show of force to deter them at this point. The chain mail he wore, the sword at his side, even his and Kosin’s clothes would fetch a fair weight of gold and silver on the streets of nearby JesserinCity or Oakbridge – not even counting whatever coins might be found in their pouches. No, these thieves would not back down easily.

The sweet smell of pith tree sap filled Argand’s nostrils. The pleasant aroma contrasted sharply with the foreboding dimness that filled the wood. With practiced stealth, he silently drew his sword from its sheath. He always felt more confident, almost as confident as he acted, once he had his blade in his hands. Argand closed his eyes and waited.

Without thinking, he placed one hand on the ground as he knelt. His eyes popped open in shock as he felt strong waves of warmth stream up his arm to his shoulder and beyond, as if a flow of heated bathwater had been injected into his veins. Gasping, he jerked his hand up and the rush vanished instantly. All he could feel now were the sensations in his feet. There were brigands still more than than fifty feet from him – how had he and Kosin managed to gain such separation so quickly? – and they were closing in on his hiding place.

He carefully returned his hand to the ground and the shot of warm energy again coursed up his arm. It was not painful, but was almost overwhelming in its power. It took him a second to realize that the feeling in his arm was exactly aligned with the familiar, pulse like surges in his feet. It was the same perception, but magnified a hundred fold. He closed his eyes and concentrated.

The energies climbing into his consciousness from the ground itself seemed to solidify, suddenly coalescing into vivid images in his mind like streaks of glowing paint being manipulated by the Land’s fastest artist. The moon-faced leader of the band, closing in on the pith tree stump at a slow trot, the other thieves lined up behind the leader with their bows and swords at the ready, two other men closing from the left with short swords and daggers, two more men with bows closing slowly from the right, horses tied to trees about twenty yards distant, a man with a strange-looking sword and silver gauntlets standing in a clearing ringed with deep shadows, a trader’s wagon pulled by a team of four workhorses along the Jury Road, the crowded marketplace in Oern village, leagues away along the river–

Argand jerked his hand from the ground and opened his eyes, watering from the intensity of the pictures that had just flashed through his thoughts. The views of those men and places were so very clear this time, with his hand in the soil and fallen leaves. He had never felt anything like it. What’s happening to me? he thought.

But there was no time. He could hear the heavy wheezing of the lead thief just on the other side of the stump. Argand held his breath, uttering a silent prayer to the Creator for help… and for continued accuracy from Kosin. He didn’t want to end up with one of those perfectly sharp throwing knives ruining his day.

In one fluid motion, Argand rose from behind the stump and slashed powerfully with his big blade, knocking the scimitar out of the leader’s hands. Without pausing Argand leapt over the stump and brought his sword’s pommel down hard on the leader’s filthy head with a sickening crunch. But before the thief’s round body could hit the ground, Argand was upon the next three brigands like a storm of metal. He engaged them with the short, circular arcs of the Highlander blade technique, and the sound of ringing steel filled the shadowy wood. Argand performed a powerful fake slash followed by a quick twisting jab through the first thief’s sword wrist, forcing him to drop his sword as he howled in pain. He then felled the other two by shattering their short swords with two lighting fast, crushing overhand swings followed by a swift kick to the gut of the nearest man that sent him crashing into his neighbor.

But the others, led by the scrawny fellow with the hawk nose, had recovered from their surprise at Argand’s furious onslaught. Hawk-nose, his sword held low and ready, and a round-faced bandit with a bull whip stood in front of Argand as the other men quickly fanned out to cut off any escape.

“The young man thinks he’s a hot-blade, Furo,” the bull whip holder muttered to hawk-nose as he loosened the whips black leather coils. “Let’s teach him a thing or two, eh?”

“With pleasure,” grunted Furo with a murderous gleam in his eyes.

Another thief entered the clearing and aimed a large crossbow at Argand’s chest. But before he could shoot, Furo charged.

The pulses surged in Argand’s temples, filling his mind with images of the thief Furo’s movements far sharper than his eyes could have ever managed in the dim light of the pithwood. Argand quickly blocked and parried the initial attack, side-stepping deftly to keep Furo between himself and the crossbow.

Again and again Furo pressed his attack, swinging in broad low arcs punctuated by staccato thrusts toward Argand’s neck or groin. Classic Goldon technique, Argand thought to himself calmly as he easily blocked and turned aside each move, paying more attention to the throbbing heartbeat of the pulses emanating from the ground than to what his eyes could see. He saw numerous opportunities to strike Furo down – a razor sharp vision of the large armhole of the brigand’s mail left exposed as he overextended a thrust – a crystalline image of Furo’s exposed left side when he mis-timed a broad, low sword stroke – but Argand instead continued to use him as a shield against the crossbowman.

A shrieking lance of color shot across Argand’s thoughts, and he instinctively fell into a crouch. The thundercrack of the bull whip rang in his ears as it sliced the air where his skull had been an instant before. Argand fluidly rolled and recovered onto his knees just in time to deflect Furo’s wild overhead swing. Pivoting with his left hand on the ground and sweeping his right foot powerfully, Argand took out Furo’s legs. The brigand, crying out in shock and flailing his arms, landed flat on his back with a heavy thud.

A colorful shift in the mad rush of pulses led Argand to jerk his broadsword high over his head as he finished his crouched spin. The crack of the bull whip was suddenly muted as the arching leather lash wrapped itself tightly around Argand’s extended blade. Argand launched himself back onto his feet as he yanked the whip free from the round-faced thief’s hands, sending the stunned man tumbling forward awkwardly.

But Argand’s focus was already on the crossbowman, poised and ready to fire. Argand’s time was up, and he knew it.

Then Kosin struck.

The thief with the crossbow screamed loudly as his trigger hand was pierced by a shining metal knife that came whistling down from the dim canopy. Furo rolled back onto his feet and moving to re-engage Argand, but then screamed in pain and dropped his sword as another knife split his right wrist from the back to the front. The whip wielder dove for cover behind a tree trunk, but took a knife in his hamstring before he hit the ground. The other bowmen in the clearing aimed upwards in a panic, but saw nothing in the shady canopy. Then they too cried out and dropped their weapons as their arms and hands sprouted shiny metal blades from Kosin’s unseen hand.

More screams erupted from the woods to the left and right, and Argand could sense via the pulses that several of the men that had been attempting to flank them were now bolting for their horses. A few of them managed to yank Kosin’s knives free, dropping them as they ran.

The pulses said that there was still one thief that had not run, hiding behind a tree to the right. Argand held his sword at the ready, but he couldn’t cross the distance in time if the bandit had a bow.

Argand slowly knelt and placed his left hand on the ground. The chorus of streaking colors quickly cleared into a detailed vision of the hiding thief. He was older, with long white hair worn in a braid and a round shield strapped to his back. He had a short bow with an arrow on-string.

The high-pitched twang of the arrows release filled the quiet pithwood.

Argand reflexively tensed for the arrow’s blow, but it never came. He heard a quick snap, then the thud of the arrow hitting the ground. A moment later, another scream pierced the early morning air. Argand sensed the archer’s steps as he ran away with one of Kosin’s blades in his flesh.

Kosin landed on the soft ground in front of Argand, his black cloak flailing around him as he fell instantly into a squat. He still had a knife in his right hand, pinched between two fingers, but Argand lowered his sword and heaved a sigh.

“That’s it. That’s all of them,” he said, finally breathing easily.

“No,” Kosin said, slowly spinning in place in his crouch and surveying the trees, “No, you said there were thirteen. I don’t see any others either, but I hit nine with knives, and you got three with your sword. Where’s the other?”

Argand’s smile faded. He sheathed his sword and focused on the sensations in his feet. The pulses were there, but they revealed no other bandits in the vicinity. He again placed his hand on the ground.

The warm energy spun into Argand’s mind once again. He saw the injured thieves as they gained ground on horseback and on foot, working their way eastward back toward the fishing village of Oern through which Argand and Kosin had passed on the previous day. They would be seeking medical attention from a local physician.

But the thirteenth figure, the one in the silver, shimmering gauntlets, was gone.

“What’s this?” asked Kosin, frowning at Argand as he knelt with his hand in the soil. “A new trick? Or are you worn out from your sparring session?”

Argand grinned and stood, brushing the dirt off of his hand. “Well, yes. A new trick. I will explain it to you… if I can… later. But no, there’s no one else anywhere near here. I picked out thirteen men, yes, but I don’t think the thirteenth was a thief. Someone was standing farther off – maybe a lot farther off – not sure. I couldn’t tell the difference.”

Kosin stood and returned the knife to the folds of his cloak. He continued to scan the pithwood warily as he began hunting for and cleaning his remaining weapons among the leaves and dirt. It took a lot to get Kosin to relax after an event like this. And Argand had learned firsthand that events like this were happening all the time these days in Jesserin Duchy.

“Three men, Argand? You took down three men hand-to-hand and don’t even have a scratch to show for it? It’s hard to believe, but you are getting even better with the sword, aren’t you.” It wasn’t really a question.

Argand sighed. “It wasn’t even that hard. It was as if they were moving through a bog and I was attacking at full speed. If it hadn’t been for the archers, I feel like I could’ve taken them all!” Argand paused then cocked an eyebrow. “But if it’s all the same to you, maybe you shouldn’t wait quite so long to do your knife work next time? That was pretty close.”

“Well you were doing just fine when the fighting started,” Kosin replied, shrugging as he picked up another bloody blade and cleaned it on a handful of fallen leaves. “But towards the end, I was worried. I thought that last bowman was going to force me to continue my travels solo.”

“You and me both,” Argand said as he leaned against the stump. The fat thief still lay at its base, unconscious and snoring softly. He would have a colossal bruise and an equally large headache once he awoke. “If that last one was a good shot, I think you would be carrying me on your back to the nearest cuperative right now!”

Kosin’s frown deepened. He walked over to an arrow lying on the ground a dozen feet away, then tossed it to Argand.

Argand caught the arrow and looked at it closely. The arrowhead was intact, but the shaft ended abruptly as if it had been cut. A second later, Kosin tossed him the other half of the shaft with the fletching still in place. Argand’s eyebrows rose high on his forehead as he again looked at Kosin, watching as the small man bent to pick up another one of his throwing knives, buried almost up to its end in the soft earth. This one had no blood on it.

Argand’s mouth gaped open.

“Right,” Kosin said, growing a little pale. “Your archer didn’t miss. I… uh… I hit the arrow. In mid-flight. With one of my knives.”

Argand closed his mouth, then blinked hard. “On purpose? You aimed for the arrow? You could see it???”

“Uh, I could more feel it than see it. I just reacted. And I knew, the second I let the knife fly, I knew I wouldn’t miss.”

“Unbelievable. A new trick, Mr. Fletcher?”

Kosin smiled then, but his brow was furrowed. “Well, yes. I’ll explain it further… if I can… later.” He slowly shook his head.

“Argand,” said Kosin, head shaking in confusion, “what is happening to us?”

“I have no idea, Kosin. I have absolutely no idea. But I’m more convinced than ever that we need to keep all of this to ourselves.”

Kosin nodded in agreement, looking back at the crumpled form of the lead thief as they began walking back towards their campsite. “No one would believe any of those dirtbags if they did talk, so I doubt we have anything to worry about.”

But Argand was worried. He felt like it was only a matter of time until one of them did something that gave away their incredible abilities. That’s the way the stories always seemed to play out. Some young man or woman is discovered to be an Emergent, a person hiding a skill that could only be magic. Once discovered, Emergents were locked up permanently in the name of public safety. It was hard to argue with the motives of the physicians, of course. It had to be better to commit a small minority than to risk another murder spree at the hands of an Emergent. But Argand knew he and Kosin would remain sane, that they were the exception to the rule.

More accurately, Argand hoped – desperately – that he and Kosin were not following the Emergents’ dark path towards madness.

“It’s going to be okay,” Kosin said, snapping Argand out of his reverie. “We watch each other. If things start going badly for one of us, the other can intervene. We walk to Coradis, meet up with the others, and tell them everything. Let them decide for themselves. If they’re concerned, we go it alone. Right?”

Argand nodded. “Right. It’s a good plan. We should stick to it. But the Jury road is just too dangerous. We’d better look into hiring a boat once we get to HaverlinCity.”

Kosin’s face darkened at that comment. Argand jumped in before he could begin to grouse.

“It’s worth a few weight of gold to get us off this road, Kosin! Besides, as knights we will have endless weights of gold to–,”

“We’re not knights yet,” Kosin interrupted smoothly as they stepped over a small creek.

“But you know we will be.”

“No matter how skilled we are, there are no guarantees. You’ve heard the stories of… people like us… when they go on Venture,” Kosin said, carefully avoiding the word ‘Emergents’ even though they were alone. “I think we need to lower our expectations.”

“I know what you’re saying. I know the stories. But Kosin, something tells me that we’re different. I know that we’re different. Trust me.”

The rest of their walk to their campsite was silent save birdsongs and the quiet crunch of their footsteps on the forest floor. But Argand’s words echoed in his mind. Something tells me that we’re different, he thought to himself. We must be meant for more than madness and imprisonment! Mustn’t we?

He looked skyward with a deepening frown, casting his question at the thin clouds above. But the brightening morning offered no reply.

* * *

Thanks for reading!

~Kevin

Hello, All!

No, it can’t be a coincidence that my disappearance from the world of blogging just happened to mirror my kids summer vacation almost to the week. Nope. No coincidence at all.

BUT… I am back. And the good news is that work on THE PROVING did not stop while summer crept by.

The first major re-write is well underway, with a target completion date of New Years Eve this year. My involvement with Author Salon has been a critical factor in the progress I have made… can’t say enough great stuff about my peer review group, the moderators, and administrators there. I have been at a full-fledged writer’s conference for fully eight months – instead of the typical long weekend.

I have new character introduction and action chapters to share on the blog, including a princess falling out of a tower and a character sex change. Fun! All coming soon.

Oh, yeah… and the little matter of the name changes! The story takes place in the Land of Pasaron now. I pronounce it “PASS-uh-ron”, and therefore the blog has been transitioned to TheTomeOfPasaron.wordpress.com.

The country where all of the protagonists reside is now called the Touran Protectorates (or often just Touran). This is also the family name of the royals, Queen Lorrelai Touran and her daughter the crown princess Darian Touran.

The capital city has changed from Greystone City to Coradis City, or just Coradis. It’s centerpiece is Coradine Castle where the Touran royal family resides.

For the most part the other names and titles have remained the same, but the plot has been re-tooled per my comments back in the spring. I will be re-posting the opening chapters soon, complete with annotations about the changes and new additions.

Until then, be well!

~Kevin