Beams of sunlight spun deceptive patterns upon the cool surface of the tile, bending its light into a thousand enticing hues. The rusted creak of huge oaken doors resonated throughout the hollow room as Arrenia pushed them aside. Allowing them to swing shut behind her, she stopped, rooted suddenly to the ground.
There, a man knelt before her stepmother and Isabel, a cloak as black as a moonless night falling from his shoulders. Stitched in fiery colors of scarlet, snakes slithered in fixed adornment about it. The crimson orbs shone forth, glowing amidst the darkness. Gulping, Arrenia forced her way forward, skimming past the mysterious being to kneel at Illana’s feet.
“You have called for me, stepmother?”
The queen’s long fingernails rattled against the armrest of her throne as she tapped it absently. “Yes, Arrenia, my dear. Please rise and meet Lucrious Orakin, Prince of Sleyvink.”
Lucrious. Every letter of the name hissed down her spine, merging into one large shudder. Whiteness hallooed her knuckles as her fingers tightened into a ball. Her legs began to shake, begging her to flee. Lucrious of Sleyvink.
“Go on, dear, say something. Offer him your hand,” Illana whispered.
Hesitancy clogged Arrenia’s throat, her fluttering stomach almost making her ill. Slowly, she extended a clammy hand forward and forced a smile. “Pleasure to meet you, Lucrious.”
With one flourishing sweep, he rose and threw back his hood, his lips brushing her fingers. “A pleasure to finally meet you as well, most beautiful maiden. I have heard many good things about you.”
He brought his gaze up to meet hers, scanning and surveying her. She recoiled, a vague sense of horrified fascination erupting within her. That scrutiny! Where had she felt it before?
Night covered the senses of her imagination. Cloaked figures. A roaring fire. Snakes. Castor pushing her down. Suddenly, she knew.
Cold sweat oozed from her flesh as she backed away
“He has come to ask for your hand in marriage, my dearest girl. Isn’t that wonderful? Think of how the alliance would heal our two nations!”
Arrenia clenched her roiling stomach as the knot within it twisted. Fear pounded upon the drum of her heart. Goosebumps pricked her arms, raising her hair until it stood on end.
Grinning crookedly, he said, “It is true. As soon as I heard of your good deeds and agreeable nature, I set off at once to find you, for I knew I loved you.”
From where she sat beside her mother, Isabel scowled down at him, a look of disapproval etched upon her face. Digging her long nails into the lion’s head carved into her small throne, she channeled all of her anger into strangling the stone creature beneath her hands.
Lucrious glanced at her momentarily as he fell to one knee. “Miss Arrenia de la Cornia, Princess of Lydacia, I offer you my heart- my very life…take it….” He looked at her. “I beg of you.”
She stood unmoved, unable to speak, unable to flee. Cunningness cutting through his gaze, it pierced right through her, the silent screams of his scheming rattling her being. Trembling until she almost couldn’t stand, her mind raced, fighting hard to break through the barrier of soundless noise ringing in her ears.
“Say yes, my dear. We don’t want to keep the Prince of Sleyvink waiting, now, do we?” Illana whispered.
Sleyvink. Castor. Tears pricked the corners of Arrenia’s eyes, pooling about them before spilling softly onto her flushed cheeks. She hung her head. Why, oh why, had she ever returned? Had she just remained with Castor, none of this would ever have happened! She might be dead by now, of that she was fairly certain. But of what purpose was living a life of pain? Even death must be preferable to this torture she now daily knew! Oh, why had she been such a coward? Why could she have not gone bravely to her death?
Oh, Ino, help me! she prayed.
“That is it. You have thought for long enough, dear!” Illana rose and, pulling Arrenia along with her, marched her way down the steps. Taking both of their hands, she joined them together, saying, “There! I give my blessing to this union and hereby announced you two betrothed!”
Arrenia felt her heart shatter into a million pieces, crushed beneath her hopeless plight. Through her blurred vision, she glared up at her stepmother. A small, faint whisper emitted from her mouth. “How could you?”
Cocking her head slightly, the woman replied. “I do this for the betterment of our people, Arrenia. Someday, you will understand.”
Opening her mouth to reply, the girl stammered out indeterminable sounds. Chest throbbing, she struggled to speak, to vent the angered heartbreak pent up inside. Her tongue tightened into a knot of pain, coiling into a knot of pain. Yanking herself free from both of their grasps, she fled across the tile floor.
Illana’s lips curved into a firm line as she watched the girl go, a hard, frigid haze glazing her gaze. The infuriated furnace of her soul flared color onto her cheeks. Muttering inaudible words in ancient Lydacian, she turned to Lucrious.
The corners of her mouth peeled back, sunlight glinting off her flawless teeth. “You must forgive my stepdaughter’s impudence, your Highness. She has endured a rather taxing past few days and is quite exasperated. I shall now depart from you to speak with her. Good evening.”
Spreading her silken skirt its full width, she executed a dainty curtsey. Then, gathering her hem from off the floor, she strode away, calling Arrenia’s name.
Isabel slid from the cushioned seat upon her throne, gliding with conniving grace towards the man. Her eyes narrowed into slits as she approached, her jaw set firm, her features encased in a shell frozen by her cold demeanor. Bending her head slightly, she dug her nails into the fleshy recesses of Lucrious’s face, glaring wickedly at him.
“How dare you?” she hissed.
Grasping her wrist, he drew her in until her breath puffed gently on his features. “Isabel. Dear, cruel Isabel. Beautiful to the eye and dark to the soul. This is part of the plan. Fret not your pretty brow over the whims of its fancy.”
The girl sighed, puckering out her lower lip in impudent detestment. Nosing her face forward, she said, “You poisonous little snake! You loved me!”
Caressing the smooth flesh of her hand, he whispered softly in her ear. “Yes, but Arrenia is now within my reach.”
She yanked away and strode across the room, her chin pointed skyward.
Beams of sunlight spilled over the folds of her flowy dress, clashing brilliantly with the darkness of her material cloud, sparkling upon the sequins sewn into it. Lucrious blinked, blinded by this light. Reeling backwards, he caught himself on his elbows and began scrambling farther away from the sight. Trembles took his body for a reason he couldn’t explain. Thoughts brimmed in his head, bubbling over in his mind. He closed his eyes and turned away, sealing them with a tight squeeze as he replaced light with darkness. He could feel it all around him, enveloping him, as if it wanted to swallow him whole. As the black abyss swam before his eyes, as single Voice rang through his head.
“Don’t,” It said. “Don’t. Let the girl go.”
Suddenly, an image of Arrenia, lying prostrate upon her bed, entered his mind. Pillow catching her tears, she wept and wailed without reserve. Screaming to Ino, she beat the mattress with a relentless fist.
Lucrious smiled. Good! Just as he wanted it.
He clenched his teeth, words forming from behind it. “Never.”
Isabel spun around on her heels. “What?!”
Lifting his lids, Lucrious allowed daylight to flood his vision once again. Isabel stood before him, feet planted firmly upon the ground. Her stare bore through him, piercing his heart and penetrating to his soul. The ferocity of her anger burned through him, leaving his tongue dry and speechless. He hung his head.
She stomped over to him and grasped his chin, forcing his vision upward. Cold and unflinching, she sneered in his face. “What did you say? Tell me.”
Gulping, he attempted to speak. “This is all necessary, my sweet.”
“Just what is necessary?...Tell me!”
Brow arching in cynicism, she peered at him, her silence spinning cords of strength about his tongue, knotting it tightly within his jaws. Triumph crawled across her countenance, lining her features in reveled victory.
Averting his gaze from hers, he began to trip over the words. “This deception…this feigned love-”
Slap!
Stinging zapped through his being, a crimson color surfacing under the powerful thrust of Isabel’s bony hand. He held his cheek, flinching as the after-effects sprawled through his nerves. Rocking slightly, he set his jaw against the throbbing pain pulsing through his body.
“Feigned love, ha!” she laughed in his face. “Don’t think I didn’t see the twinkle in your eye. Am I so hideous in spirit and soul that even your reputation pales in comparison to mine? To what avail is this scheme of yours?”
Inhaling deeply, he flipped up his chin and stared steadily into her eyes. “You wanted to rule.”
Erecting her posture, her vision traced her nose right down to him. “As did you.”
He leapt to his feet, the red hot blood of anger coursing through his veins. With it seizing him in the wild siege of his being, he wrapped solid fists around her shoulders, shaking her with the tremblings of his fierce fury. “Do you have any idea what I have done for you? What I have done for us? Do you really think there is any profit for me in marrying a fatherless Lydacian princess, unless it is to murder her in her sleep?! The medallion is the girl’s most prized possession. Without it she is worthless. I had to get it somehow. What did you expect?”
She grasped his tunic, leaning in. “I expected you to play it fair.”
Locking her gaze in his, he backed her up against a pillar. His heart beat in his chest with every step he took, pumping blood through his veins. Heat scourged his soul as he took her in, the coolness of her fiery quiet fanning the flames, thawing his icy innards. The snow-white skin, smooth and untainted by ugliness’s accursed kiss. The lips of royal ruby, echoed in the feisty fire of fury in her eyes.
Pushing aside a black strand of hair, he leaned in and whispered, “Isabel. Being of beauty untold, of such I will never find again. Did you not know it was of you of whom I spoke? The princess Arrenia means nothing to me. It is your beauty that captures my soul.”
She shoved him away. “Until I discover the true meaning behind your unjust little façade, your words are non-existent to me.”
Moving in, he wrapped his arms about her and encased her mouth in a kiss, his pulse pounding in his throat. She tensed for a moment, pulling back with all her might, battling against the emotions running through her. Second by second, strength drained from her. She fought against it, struggling for her right to stand in her own stubborn will. Parried and blocked by her inner self, her energy waned, leaving her to melt into his embrace.
Feeling her sinews slacken beneath his touch, he released her, caressing her in a cherishing cradle. Sinking deeper into his arms, she cracked her eyes slightly open.
“Fair enough?” he asked.
“I suppose,” she said.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Don't Forget- Demi's Latest Smash!
Demi Lovato opened her mouth- and electrified the world. Ever since she co-starred with the Jonas Brothers in Camp Rock, this pop/rock girl has ridden the tidal wave inclining popularity. And now, with her precocious debut album, Don't Forget, she leaves us spellbound, breathless- rocking when she rocks and crying when she cries.
This album, in short, from the punky funk of La La Land all the way down to the sweet love ballads, is amazing! Demi's voice absolutely engulfs every single note, and there are very few spots where it could be said to be "weak". For those of you who loved her on Camp Rock, there will be no disappointments as she leaves her mark upon the world of teenage music.
And what a mark it is! She co-wrote most of the album with the Jonas Brothers, tainting it with a taste of the sibling trio's pop-culture pizzazz. Literally, sometimes I'll be listening to a song and be thinking, "I can so hear Joe/Nick singing this!" But for all you Jonas-haters (and I know you're out there), never fear. There's something very unique about the way Miss Lovato delivers each and every song. The girl's got talent, and I doubt her unique style will ever be repeated again.
That being said, here are my top recommendations for you to buy:
1. Get Back- Love this song! Perfect depiction of a girl wanting to renew the good times she had with her boyfriend.
2. Don't Forget- A rather sad song, faintly reminscent of Lovebug with it's slow beginning bursting into a rocky chorus. The heartbreak is so ominous in her voice that I almost cried.
3. Party- Just what it sounds like! A gotta get up and dance beat with fun lyrics. I could definitely see this becoming a dance song in the future!
4. Trainwreck- Wild and sweet- what could be better? In this crash-course song, Demi describes the wreckless and perhaps dangerous boy who holds her heart.
5. Gonna Get Caught- An honest- if brutal- display of the emotions and distrust roused by a boyfriend's cheating frivolity.
This album, in short, from the punky funk of La La Land all the way down to the sweet love ballads, is amazing! Demi's voice absolutely engulfs every single note, and there are very few spots where it could be said to be "weak". For those of you who loved her on Camp Rock, there will be no disappointments as she leaves her mark upon the world of teenage music.
And what a mark it is! She co-wrote most of the album with the Jonas Brothers, tainting it with a taste of the sibling trio's pop-culture pizzazz. Literally, sometimes I'll be listening to a song and be thinking, "I can so hear Joe/Nick singing this!" But for all you Jonas-haters (and I know you're out there), never fear. There's something very unique about the way Miss Lovato delivers each and every song. The girl's got talent, and I doubt her unique style will ever be repeated again.
That being said, here are my top recommendations for you to buy:
1. Get Back- Love this song! Perfect depiction of a girl wanting to renew the good times she had with her boyfriend.
2. Don't Forget- A rather sad song, faintly reminscent of Lovebug with it's slow beginning bursting into a rocky chorus. The heartbreak is so ominous in her voice that I almost cried.
3. Party- Just what it sounds like! A gotta get up and dance beat with fun lyrics. I could definitely see this becoming a dance song in the future!
4. Trainwreck- Wild and sweet- what could be better? In this crash-course song, Demi describes the wreckless and perhaps dangerous boy who holds her heart.
5. Gonna Get Caught- An honest- if brutal- display of the emotions and distrust roused by a boyfriend's cheating frivolity.
Friday, January 2, 2009
Hold Me Tight- My First Song
"A song?" you might be asking. "Why in the world would a book writer want to write a song?"
OK, so I do usually write books, and probably will continue to do so for a large part of my life. But lately, I've been really addicted to the songs blaring from my iPod, the big speakers in our game room- anywhere! Literally, I drive my parents nuts by playing the same songs nearly every day (just ask Mom). Point blank, I LOVE MUSIC!!!!
So, partially inspired by my friend Ellen's idea to create a band, I decided to combine my two loves into one and just see what I could come up with. To begin, I toyed around with some words that went with a theme I had come up with one day to keep me company through the toils of math. Sounds stupid, but that's just how me and songwriting go- I start singing about a random theme and either add lyrics that rhyme and go great together or throw out the ones that don't. Although I have several other ideas in the works, this is my first song (and the only one that's finished).
Now, just to clear up a few things- I write a (clean) love song because, as a teen, I love being able to (hopefully) construct brilliant phrases that expresses something that both adults and my fellow teens can relate to, even if the frivolity of the first love is fleeting. Actually, growing up SURROUNDED with country radio, watching my mom smooch on my dad everyday, and having completely boy-crazy friends (COUGH COUGH!), a cute, completely Christian love-work has become kinda my little niche. It's true that I have accumulated a lot of info of the falling in love symptoms over the years and use them frequently in my works, but I assure you that I always write with the purest intentions and to the glory of God. I write for no other reason other than that and hope that my work will never be taken as otherwise.
That being said, here's my very first song- Hold Me Tight. Enjoy!
Take my hand,
Draw me near,
I want to feel you close to me,
Right now, right here.
Clouded skies,
Starless night,
Tell me why, oh why, we keep on,
With this fight?
So pull me in,
Just hold me tight,
Whisper, tell me,
We’ll make it through tonight.
And hold me tight.
Just hold me tight, Baby.
This distance,
Keepin’ us apart,
I want you, I need you,
With every piece of my heart.
So come close, Baby,
Cause I can’t breathe, I can’t live,
Without you.
But if, only if,
You’d pull me in,
Just hold me tight,
Whisper, tell me,
We’ll make it through tonight.
And hold me tight.
Just hold me tight, Baby.
Oh, Boy,
Is this how love goes?
So broken, so shattered,
My heart just needs to know.
But if you’d just put your arms around me,
It’d be all the answer I’d need.
So pull me in,
Just hold me tight,
And maybe, just once,
Tonight will be alright.
So hold me tight.
Just hold me tight.
OK, so I do usually write books, and probably will continue to do so for a large part of my life. But lately, I've been really addicted to the songs blaring from my iPod, the big speakers in our game room- anywhere! Literally, I drive my parents nuts by playing the same songs nearly every day (just ask Mom). Point blank, I LOVE MUSIC!!!!
So, partially inspired by my friend Ellen's idea to create a band, I decided to combine my two loves into one and just see what I could come up with. To begin, I toyed around with some words that went with a theme I had come up with one day to keep me company through the toils of math. Sounds stupid, but that's just how me and songwriting go- I start singing about a random theme and either add lyrics that rhyme and go great together or throw out the ones that don't. Although I have several other ideas in the works, this is my first song (and the only one that's finished).
Now, just to clear up a few things- I write a (clean) love song because, as a teen, I love being able to (hopefully) construct brilliant phrases that expresses something that both adults and my fellow teens can relate to, even if the frivolity of the first love is fleeting. Actually, growing up SURROUNDED with country radio, watching my mom smooch on my dad everyday, and having completely boy-crazy friends (COUGH COUGH!), a cute, completely Christian love-work has become kinda my little niche. It's true that I have accumulated a lot of info of the falling in love symptoms over the years and use them frequently in my works, but I assure you that I always write with the purest intentions and to the glory of God. I write for no other reason other than that and hope that my work will never be taken as otherwise.
That being said, here's my very first song- Hold Me Tight. Enjoy!
Take my hand,
Draw me near,
I want to feel you close to me,
Right now, right here.
Clouded skies,
Starless night,
Tell me why, oh why, we keep on,
With this fight?
So pull me in,
Just hold me tight,
Whisper, tell me,
We’ll make it through tonight.
And hold me tight.
Just hold me tight, Baby.
This distance,
Keepin’ us apart,
I want you, I need you,
With every piece of my heart.
So come close, Baby,
Cause I can’t breathe, I can’t live,
Without you.
But if, only if,
You’d pull me in,
Just hold me tight,
Whisper, tell me,
We’ll make it through tonight.
And hold me tight.
Just hold me tight, Baby.
Oh, Boy,
Is this how love goes?
So broken, so shattered,
My heart just needs to know.
But if you’d just put your arms around me,
It’d be all the answer I’d need.
So pull me in,
Just hold me tight,
And maybe, just once,
Tonight will be alright.
So hold me tight.
Just hold me tight.
Thursday, January 1, 2009
Blood of the Lamb Excerpts
Just some more of my book. Enjoy and feel free to critique!
Stillness stung the silence, injecting an eerie atmosphere into the inky black vault. The clouded sky stretched overhead as Lucrious stepped out into the cool night air, the lantern he carried pricking the darkness with a patch of light. Delving his hand into the inner recesses of his cloak, he produced a small sheet of paper, neatly rolled up and fastened with string. Nudging the bird along his arm, he secured it to its leg, mentally rehearsing his carefully crafted plan. A cold smile crossed his face as he released the bird into the air, whispering, “Fly, friend, fly with the speed of the wind!
He remained on the balcony, watching until the darkness absorbed the little black speck flying in its midst….
Isabel stirred the fire in the hearth, the sight of it surging forward and lapping the stone walls delighting her. Inhaling deeply, she allowed the smoke to rage through her nostrils, burning them with the ferocity of the stench. Reaching up, she felt along the upper shelf, probing into its contents until she struck a single bottle. Bringing it down, she gazed at it steadily, studying how it bubbled and churned, listing crazily from one side to the next. She nodded, the cork coming off as she twisted it about.
The liquid drained slowly from the bottle, hissing hideously as it entered the kettle over the flames, the scandalous scent of scourging chemicals permeating the air. Speckling some spices into the white palm of her hand, she tossed them into her creation.
Tap! Tap! Tap!
She sighed, striding over to the window to face the intruder. Thrusting back the windowpanes, she opened her mouth to unleash a hail of curses in ancient Lydacian. But the words clogged in her throat, and she immediately forced them down when she saw who it was.
“Liarino macia keria, my little one,” she whispered. “Yes, you must keep more quiet.”
The bird hopped into her outstretched hand, extending to her the leg burdened with the message. Firelight dancing of the glazed surface of its dark eyes, it cocked its head, staring at her with intimate expectancy.
Loosening the knotted string, Isabel separated the paper from the limb, cradling the precious object in her fingers. Setting the bird in its cage, she locked it behind bars, allowing it to peck at the feed filling its bowl.
Trepidation sending trembles through her being, she fingered the rolled message, unwinding it with slow uncertainty. Quivers traversed her body as the fire’s flames glanced off the letters scripted in bold, scarlet ink:
“YIN NIKAN LEIN MWOK. REWT NITI TA YIN.”
“I can get the medallion,” she repeated aloud. “Leave it to me.”
Chapter #12
Arrenia stabbed her sampler, thankful for the quiet company of her faithful friends. The incessant sound of the clock reverberated through her, ticking off time with maddening monotony. A tear slipping from her eye, she brought the needle up and delved it deep into the stitchery once more.
She sniffed. How many times had she cried now? Countless it must be, by her reckoning. How many droplets from her bleeding eyes had dribbled down her cheeks unnoticed? Too many, she was sure.
Oh, how lonely could the world become before the sheer absence of consulate care broke her heart? Those closest to her she now barely knew, so grave and withdrawn they had become in these bleak hours. Silence seemed her only companion- and one for which she was partially grateful.
A knock came on the door, interrupting the constant flow of her thoughts. Smothering the tear with the back of her hand, she whimpered, “Come in.”
A slave girl opened the door and peeped timidly in. Striding to the center of the room, she clasped her hands together, wringing them gently in self-conscious sympathy. “My lady, the queen requests your presence in the throne room immediately.”
Arrenia sighed. “Please, Seraiah, tell her I am under no presentable state of mind.”
The girl’s gaze refused to meet her own. “My sincere sympathies, Miss, but Mistress said it was impertinent to your future.”
Hanging her head, Arrenia sighed. The heartache weighted her being with its leaden burden, dragging her spirits to the ground. Trembling with every move she made, her body atrophized beneath the heftiness of it, fading with every fleeting second into sheer collapse. She massaged her brow with thin fingers, trying with all her strength to beat back the waves of tumultuous thoughts crashing in on her.
Her future! What more was life than a series of inevitable pain? Of storms hailing curses, and rain spilling from the sky? All life had ever done to her was take away. Why should she give back to it?
“Everything I ever lived for is gone. Whatever happens to me now is of little matter.”
Callused hands enveloped hers as Seraiah knelt at her feet. “Oh, my Lady, don’t say that! Your life matters very, very much!”
“In what way? Tell me…I would like very much to hear.”
Exhaling, she stroked the skin of her mistress’s white hand. “I know you miss your father, Arrenia. We all do.” Her hand stopped as her fingers wrapped securely about the girl’s knuckles. “Without him many of us wouldn’t be here. Without him Lydacia wouldn’t be where she is today. He was kind. Generous. But, above all, he fought fearlessly for justice and what is right…not unlike you, Arrenia. The people need you. They need you more than you know.”
Arrenia bit her lip, attempting to force down the tears now pouring across her face. Someone saw her pain! Somebody cared!
She wanted laugh. To shout her emotional joy to all who might be around. Tossing her arms around Seraiah’s neck, she wept upon her shoulder, whispering, “Thank you.”
“Will you come?”
Arrenia let go and straightened her back. Smiling slightly, she said, “Tell my stepmother as shall come as soon as I am able.”
Standing, Seraiah smoothed her simple frock. “I will do that, my Lady.”
When the girl left, Arrenia rose to her feet, slipped on her courtroom gown, and glided over to the door. Pulling it aside, she stepped out into the hall, the first warm rays of hope shining in her soul.
Stillness stung the silence, injecting an eerie atmosphere into the inky black vault. The clouded sky stretched overhead as Lucrious stepped out into the cool night air, the lantern he carried pricking the darkness with a patch of light. Delving his hand into the inner recesses of his cloak, he produced a small sheet of paper, neatly rolled up and fastened with string. Nudging the bird along his arm, he secured it to its leg, mentally rehearsing his carefully crafted plan. A cold smile crossed his face as he released the bird into the air, whispering, “Fly, friend, fly with the speed of the wind!
He remained on the balcony, watching until the darkness absorbed the little black speck flying in its midst….
Isabel stirred the fire in the hearth, the sight of it surging forward and lapping the stone walls delighting her. Inhaling deeply, she allowed the smoke to rage through her nostrils, burning them with the ferocity of the stench. Reaching up, she felt along the upper shelf, probing into its contents until she struck a single bottle. Bringing it down, she gazed at it steadily, studying how it bubbled and churned, listing crazily from one side to the next. She nodded, the cork coming off as she twisted it about.
The liquid drained slowly from the bottle, hissing hideously as it entered the kettle over the flames, the scandalous scent of scourging chemicals permeating the air. Speckling some spices into the white palm of her hand, she tossed them into her creation.
Tap! Tap! Tap!
She sighed, striding over to the window to face the intruder. Thrusting back the windowpanes, she opened her mouth to unleash a hail of curses in ancient Lydacian. But the words clogged in her throat, and she immediately forced them down when she saw who it was.
“Liarino macia keria, my little one,” she whispered. “Yes, you must keep more quiet.”
The bird hopped into her outstretched hand, extending to her the leg burdened with the message. Firelight dancing of the glazed surface of its dark eyes, it cocked its head, staring at her with intimate expectancy.
Loosening the knotted string, Isabel separated the paper from the limb, cradling the precious object in her fingers. Setting the bird in its cage, she locked it behind bars, allowing it to peck at the feed filling its bowl.
Trepidation sending trembles through her being, she fingered the rolled message, unwinding it with slow uncertainty. Quivers traversed her body as the fire’s flames glanced off the letters scripted in bold, scarlet ink:
“YIN NIKAN LEIN MWOK. REWT NITI TA YIN.”
“I can get the medallion,” she repeated aloud. “Leave it to me.”
Chapter #12
Arrenia stabbed her sampler, thankful for the quiet company of her faithful friends. The incessant sound of the clock reverberated through her, ticking off time with maddening monotony. A tear slipping from her eye, she brought the needle up and delved it deep into the stitchery once more.
She sniffed. How many times had she cried now? Countless it must be, by her reckoning. How many droplets from her bleeding eyes had dribbled down her cheeks unnoticed? Too many, she was sure.
Oh, how lonely could the world become before the sheer absence of consulate care broke her heart? Those closest to her she now barely knew, so grave and withdrawn they had become in these bleak hours. Silence seemed her only companion- and one for which she was partially grateful.
A knock came on the door, interrupting the constant flow of her thoughts. Smothering the tear with the back of her hand, she whimpered, “Come in.”
A slave girl opened the door and peeped timidly in. Striding to the center of the room, she clasped her hands together, wringing them gently in self-conscious sympathy. “My lady, the queen requests your presence in the throne room immediately.”
Arrenia sighed. “Please, Seraiah, tell her I am under no presentable state of mind.”
The girl’s gaze refused to meet her own. “My sincere sympathies, Miss, but Mistress said it was impertinent to your future.”
Hanging her head, Arrenia sighed. The heartache weighted her being with its leaden burden, dragging her spirits to the ground. Trembling with every move she made, her body atrophized beneath the heftiness of it, fading with every fleeting second into sheer collapse. She massaged her brow with thin fingers, trying with all her strength to beat back the waves of tumultuous thoughts crashing in on her.
Her future! What more was life than a series of inevitable pain? Of storms hailing curses, and rain spilling from the sky? All life had ever done to her was take away. Why should she give back to it?
“Everything I ever lived for is gone. Whatever happens to me now is of little matter.”
Callused hands enveloped hers as Seraiah knelt at her feet. “Oh, my Lady, don’t say that! Your life matters very, very much!”
“In what way? Tell me…I would like very much to hear.”
Exhaling, she stroked the skin of her mistress’s white hand. “I know you miss your father, Arrenia. We all do.” Her hand stopped as her fingers wrapped securely about the girl’s knuckles. “Without him many of us wouldn’t be here. Without him Lydacia wouldn’t be where she is today. He was kind. Generous. But, above all, he fought fearlessly for justice and what is right…not unlike you, Arrenia. The people need you. They need you more than you know.”
Arrenia bit her lip, attempting to force down the tears now pouring across her face. Someone saw her pain! Somebody cared!
She wanted laugh. To shout her emotional joy to all who might be around. Tossing her arms around Seraiah’s neck, she wept upon her shoulder, whispering, “Thank you.”
“Will you come?”
Arrenia let go and straightened her back. Smiling slightly, she said, “Tell my stepmother as shall come as soon as I am able.”
Standing, Seraiah smoothed her simple frock. “I will do that, my Lady.”
When the girl left, Arrenia rose to her feet, slipped on her courtroom gown, and glided over to the door. Pulling it aside, she stepped out into the hall, the first warm rays of hope shining in her soul.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Blood of the Lamb Excerpts- Catching Up
Okay, so I appologize for not posting a lot of my works lately. I've been very busy with drama, school, friends, etc (excuses, excuses, excuses!). Anyway, I HAVE done more work on The Blood of the Lamb, so I wish to update you on everything with these new excerpts. Here they are, so enjoy!
The oaken panels swung back, revealing before them a colorful court of nobles, adorned with the luxuries of the lands. Men and women alike, their little children clinging to them, lined the aisle. Near the back of the room, standing imperious over the others, a throne sat. And embraced by its cushioned comfort, Illana, Arrenia’s stepmother reclined, flocked by her daughter Isabel on one side and a slave from the exotic corners of the world on another.
Inevitable chatter rang incessantly through the air, interrupted only when all pairs of eyes, some nearly blinded by age, others having not yet seen the fruits of their days, turned upon the guard and the small, frightened girl he led behind him.
Arrenia hugged herself, looking into one emotionless face and then the next. With every sense, she felt their sharp pity. Noble after noble, lord, lady, and child alike- their large, sad eyes- burdening her with despair’s ready trust, until she stumbled, catching herself upon her hands.
Like one big wave, the sea of courtiers rose, their gasps eliciting her from her reverie. Warmth rose in her cheeks, and she scrambled to her feet, covering the remaining distance to the throne in long strides. Her eyes remained on the ground, her hands folded in front of her. She clenched her teeth together, subduing the tears tugging at her eyes. So, crushed beneath the world’s conflicting weights, she crumpled to the floor in front of the queen.
“Your Majesty.” A mere quiet tremble it was, but a tremble all the same.
“Stepdaughter, you have returned. What a pleasure to see you again.”
Arrenia opened her mouth, searching her brain for the right words. Several rose to her tongue, but the leaden lump in her throat choked all sound. Nervousness twisted her hands into a tight ball. Seconds dragging on, the acuteness of time stabbed at her soul. Silence sung of the expectancy of the court, ringing in her ears louder than any melody. A soft whimper escaped her lips as she raised a pleading look to the queen.
Arching her thick brows, the woman said, “Well?”
Arrenia held her sorrow in with soft little gasps. It was all she could do not to cry.
Sliding from her seat, Isabel moved with graceful strides over to the grieving girl. Her midnight- hued robe carpeted the steps, the silver stitched crescent moon glittering dully in the light of the large chandelier. The schism of speech deepened and widened with each lengthening moment. Forcing it upward, a cold bony finger poked at Arrenia’s chin.
“So cold…so dark…so sad….” Isabel whispered. A cruel smile tipped the scarlet corners of her mouth. “Mother, perhaps we should give her a bit more of a…well…warm welcome.”
Black curls swung in Illana’s face as she shook her head. “No, darling. I think it best that she hear the sad news in front of the court.”
Arrenia’s heart pounded in her chest, beating like a booming drum until she knew everyone could hear it. Chills rattled through her body, shaking her with the intensity of their ruthless ravage. More sad news? Her mind ran wild over the possibilities each idea worst than the next. She set her jaw, trying to shun them from her thoughts all the while bracing herself for the awful truth.
“But of course,” Isabel said. “I simply thought that she might need a bit of comforting. I, after all, know how hard it is to lose a father…let alone a brother…on one night. But, as always, you are in the right, Mother. It would be good for her to be crowned before the people, since it was, after all, the people’s decision to place her upon the throne. Besides, she would have hundreds of people to share her misery with.”
Shots of pained grief ran through Arrenia as stared into the dark eyes of hypnotic deception. Drenched in doleful mournings, her stepsister’s voice was. But the statuary masquerade of stone-faced sympathy failed to conceal the truth. The eyes staring down into her own twinkled in the merriment of their wicked amusement.
A slow tear meandered down her cheek, wandering aimlessly until it fell into the palm of her hand. Her jaw clenched against the sharp throbbing of her heart, she studied the girl.
Isabel. Bewitchingly beautiful Isabel with her bottomless promises and pretty words! She could say anything, unchecked and unlimited by the world, and her people still revered her radiant beauty and held her in high esteem. She could cut and hurt all she liked, and the land would never see past her pretty pretense. With every laborious pound of her wounded heart Arrenia recalled an instance when Isabel’s slicing sayings had gone by unpunished. And with her brother gone, she found herself trapped, cornered, and hopelessly helpless in the arms of her only family.
“For that is what you would want, someone to commiserate with, is it not, little sister?” The smile widened, revealing flawlessly white fangs.
Arrenia pulled herself free and fled down aisle, hands covering her face, shouting behind her, “Get away from me!”
A Lamb stepped from misty fog of sleep, entering into the old scholar’s mind. The trees around him creaked and swayed, their old boughs nearly breaking under the breath of a light wind. A deep, strange sound of wailed distress resonated in his ears as the Creature approached, as if the very depths of the trees were calling out. Their boughs lashed at the air, their leaves falling to the ground in a flurried frenzy as the sound escalated. Bewildered and afraid, the scholar curled into a tight ball upon his mat.
But then the clouds rolled away, and a facet of moonlight struck the Lamb, playing briefly upon what He carried in His mouth. It glittered and glowed, projecting its beauty throughout the forest. He dropped it gently into a soft carpet of lush grass and nudged it toward the man.
“The time is right. Give this to the one who shall conquer.”
“It will be done, my Lord.”
With a start, the old man jumped from sleep. He stared around the cave, eyes skimming the shadows spun on the wall. The hearth hissed its harrowing farewells as the flames vanquished in the ashes.
Chill pierced the ancient one’s skin, penetrating deep into his bones. He pulled his blanket closer about him, the scratch of the worn wool soothing to his soul. Like a languishing light, the dream faded from his view. The moonlight. The trees. The forest. Even the golden glow emanating from the object.
But the voice was still there. Still, silent, and insistent, it sang its message in his ear. Like a lute on a summer’s eve, the resonating notes flowed through the air. Beating out all sound. Making it the only voice to be heard.
Tossing his blanket aside, he stood to his entire hunched height. His walking stick forever tapping the ground, he probed his way through the darkness until he came to the door.
Rap, rap, rap!
“Cora!”
An old cracked voice croaked its way down the hall. Cora threw her shall over shoulders and picked up her candle, allowing the light to crawl into the corners. Her feet sped over the ground, guided by the call of her master’s voice. She stopped in front of the door and rattled the knob.
“Is all well, my master? Are you ill?”
The age-marked hinges screeched their protest as the door was drawn inward. Candlelight leapt upon the scholar’s face, its dancing spark tracing every line furrowed
hardships of the past.
He waved his hand. “No, my dear. I am quite well. All I ask is that you take me to the library. I…have a sudden urge to be among my books.”
The young girl bowed her fair head. “Anything you wish shall be done.”
While they traversed the narrow hall, the elderly gentleman’s hand searched the inner recesses of his sleeve. Extracting a ring of keys, he fingered them one by one.
The passage yawned and stretched before them, an endless twisting trail leading deeper into the heart of the cave. A soft draft of wind blew throughout it, sweeping dust into small flurries before gently setting it down again. The candle flickered and wavered, but never went out, firmly standing its ground in the breathing battle that threatened to put it out, leaving the world forever in darkness.
Gradually, they came upon an old wooden door, cracked and splintered from centuries of use. The scholar stepped forward and nudged it with the palm of his hand, forcing it to squeak open. He squinted into the dark recesses, his age-impaired vision unable to grasp the form of what lay beyond.
“Place that candle in the alcove there, Cora….Thank you, that’s much better.”
Illumination haloed walls lined with bookshelves, revealing the forsaken religious writings- the laws by which all of Sleyvink used to run. Books of the ages, abided by men and women of years ago, now stood beneath the layers of dust, heeded by only those called to the prehistoric priesthood. They cluttered the desk and carpeted the floor- wisdom untapped by all but the very wise.
The scholar, leaning upon his cane, limped over to the desk. Half seeing, half feeling, he traced the inner edge down to a small drawer. Fingering the key, he inserted it into the lock and twisted it with slow surety.
Click!
The compartment sprang open, its single content glittering in the candlelight. He removed it from its resting place with reverence, staring in awed silence as he held it up. Then, in hardly a murmur, soft speech whispered past his lips. “The half medallion of the Lamb, our Lord and our Light. Blessed be ye, for ye will take part in the redemption of mankind!”
With that, he closed his withered hand about it, sending up a silent prayer. Oh, Lamb, keep it safe. Let the bearer who is chosen serve you well, for long and dark is the road ahead of him!
“How may I serve you, my master?”
The man shuffled back towards the doorway and grasped the girl’s shoulder. “Run Cora. Run all the way to Sleyvink. Tell the king that I have a great prize for the tournament. Say it is a great prize, and it must be given to him who will conquer.”
Clouds of gray hovered over the city of Sleyvink as the solemn procession made its way through the gates. Women lined the streets, their children before them, watching warily as the weary travelers rode by, trying to spot loved ones.
From his mount, Castor looked upon the bereaved expressions born by the passersby, and he knew why. Although they had succeeded in destroying a good part of Lydacia’s defenses, many lives lay wasted upon the cause. The newly widowed broke out into wailing as the last of the men rode by, marking the somber city with their screams of grief. Some knelt upon the ground, tossing handfuls of dirt into their hair. Others, weeping, fed the last of their coins into the hungry hands of magicians and fortunetellers. One girl of about fourteen even tugged on his leg, begging him to run her through with his sword and end her misery. With a slow shake of his head, Castor urged his horse on, his mind made up. There was no joy in the city of Sleyvink.
“Your Majesty! Your Majesty!” a young voice shouted above the commotion. A girl shouldered her way through the multitude, her carrot red hair like a streak of sunshine in the sea of black scalps. Guards closed in around the king, making his passage nigh on impossible. Castor reined in his horse, a reminiscent pang of pain pounding in his chest. That hair. That long, golden-red hair.
Sweeping his lids with a swipe of his hand, he shook his head. His heart burned deep inside his chest, tingling every nerve with the tale of its lovelorn sorrow. He closed his eyes, trying blot out her memory with endless black bliss. The blood sizzled in his veins, the scorching simmer scourging him as it coursed through his body.
Setting his jaw, he clenched his fists. He must compose himself. Was he not a warrior? She was a woman! Had he not fought stronger foes than this?
Oh, but what a woman! Sweet and shy, and yet he sensed something else, some inner resilience. His pulse quickened as she danced across the field of his imagination.
A tug came upon his mantle. “My liege! My liege!”
With bittersweet sentiment, he opened his eyes, allowing reality to flood through him. She was his past. This was his future.
He looked down at the fair-haired girl and forced a grin. “Hello, Cora. What errand gives us the honor of meeting once again?
“’Tis my master, my lord. He has a very important message for his Majesty the King, but the crowd is so large I cannot reach.”
“Then I shall deliver it for you.”
She gripped the strap of the horse’s girdle, pulling herself closer in, the tone of her voice tumbling from its wild shout to a scarce whisper. “It’s important. Too important to be made known here. Allow me to accompany you to the palace. Please. The message must go to the ear of the king and none other’s.”
Castor pressed his lips into a fine line of indecision, eyeing up and down the girl who struggled to keep step with the trot of his steed. She had always been good and gracious to him and his family. True, she had never cared much for Lucrious, but, come to think of it, neither did he. No sword or bow adorned her person, only a small, traditionally-stylized hunting knife which accompanied all Sleyvinkians whenever they should fancy to leave their abodes and venture into the robber-ridden streets. The corners of his mouth began to tip into a smile, and he held out his hand to her.
“Fine then. Accompany me you shall. But I shouldn’t dare to let a lady go on foot.”
She took his hand, and he hoisted her behind him, instructing her to fasten her grip about him. Through the thoroughfare they ploughed, the scars of war reflected on the saddened expressions. Castor didn’t dare to look at destitution’s deathly face, preferring rather to concentrate on the crude castle before him.
Lurking in the looming shadows elongating across the abandoned hall, Lucrious pressed an ear to the wall. Its rough, sharp cold sank into his cheek, biting it with all its forbidding ferocity. His mouth curved into a sly smile as muffled mumblings emanated into his ear.
Surreptitiously spying, the painted eyes of his ancestors looked on as he softly stroked the smooth, black feathers of the bird perched upon his shoulder, speaking to it in inaudible undertones. The sly, cutting words flowed from his tongue, sifting slowly into the winged creature’s brain. It cocked its head, watching him with hypnotic attention, their gazes locked in comprehensive communication. Nodding, it soaked in the ancient Sleyvinkian language, assimilating everything into its memory.
The shadows suddenly summoned him into their depths as the door creaked upon. As candlelight crept into the dark corners, he pressed himself back, seeking to become one with the dull stones upon which he sought shelter. Covering the beak of the bird with his hand, he waited, his breath drawn in with slow, shallow drags.
His father exited the room, his wife striding with graceful pride beside him. Their words slurred together into a low hum as they sped from their lips, urgent and barely above a murmur.
Behind them, a second flicker of light fanned its way into the world. Cora came quietly, her thoughts masked by the blank white slate of her face that was determinable in the darkness. She cradled a scroll in the crook of her arm. Lucrious cast his eye upon it, its scarlet thread glowing crimson in the candle’s glow.
Cold chills cut through Cora as her arm snagged into the snare of an unseen grasp. She stopped, not daring to breathe, not daring to move. The taut, terrible grip constricted her flesh, her hand turning the ghoulish gray of marked demise. Goosebumps pricked the surface of her skin as shadowy silhouette engulfed her own. Eyes warily watching, she tensed, bracing herself for whatever must come.
The wind howled through the open window, tumbling into the corridor, its ferocity unchecked. Swept away by its murderess breath, the candle flickered faintly, then went out. Darkness crowded Cora’s mind, seeping into her soul, dilating her senses until the very stones had eyes and the people portrayed in the tapestries smiled schemingly down at her.
“Scared, are you?”
The candleholder clattered to the floor as the whisper slid into her ear. Turning about, she started once again.
A man stood before her, his features cloaked in a robe of mystery. He stood tall and erect, clenching his fingers into her. Out of the cavernous depths of blackness which covered the eyes, beaconed his glare. His nose and mouth jutted from the darkness, glowing a rotting white in the moonlight. She stepped back, her gaze fixated upon him in horror.
He extended out a pale, fleshy hand to her, the bird upon his shoulder squawking hideously. “Don’t be afraid, little one. All I wish to know is information. What is you are holding?”
She stepped further back. “It is my master’s. I don’t recall you being among the few that it interests.”
The silence about them screamed of deadly doom. Cora’s ears rang the resonating drum of her heart, her knees buckling beneath the burden of fear. With every recoiling retreat, he took a step nearer, his lips bent in a belyingly cruel smile. His fingers slid over the handle of a dagger.
“My interests are my own, and I know them full well. Give me whatever it is you carry, and no harm will be done.”
With one hand, she reached out, her grip groping upon the stones until their sharpness summoned scarlet drops of blood. Using this as a guide, she slowly began slipping her way into the shadows.
Her mind reeled as she eyed the dagger. All she desired was to be free of it all, to turn and run. But that would be a grave mistake. For that, he could have her hunted down and killed. She clutched the scroll tightly in her hand, wondering whether or not she should relinquish it into his power.
She shook the thought from her mind. A decree of her master’s! How could she? Her jawline tightened, and she stared defiantly into the man’s unseen eyes.
With a blurring movement, the man pinned her to the wall, baring the blade of the dagger against the pumping pulse of her throat. It bore into her skin, her chest swelling as it blockaded breath. An unheard plea to an unseen God wrenched its way out of her mouth. Sobs rattled through her, soft and seemingly unperceived.
Lucrious leaned into his victim, the edge of words slicing deep into her soul. “Many lives has this blade taken. Much damage has it done. If it did all it then, what is to stop it from doing it now?”
Perspiration pouring down her face, Cora gasped and gagged. Small, red rivers trickled into the groove of her neck, tickling her with a tinge of horror. The night seemed to close in around her, suffocating her in the closeness of its proximity. Seconds slurring together, the moments of her life drained with every tick, tick, tick of her internal clock.
Was it really worth it? Was the secret of the medallion really that great? She glanced from the scroll in her hand back up into his eyes.
Life versus loyalty. Loyalty versus life. Her head pounded until it hurt, the knife ever pressing against her throat. And those eyes, those ever-hidden eyes, boring through the blackness that shrouded them penetrating her skin and slicing to the soul.
“You’d best hurry,” he said. “I’m not going to wait.”
Cora could feel the thump of her heart slowing steadily. She knew she didn’t have much time. The sweat of her hand bled into the paper as she clenched in her palm.
Should she do it?
Burning in her chest, her lungs begged for air. The darkness was closer now than ever, almost blotting her vision entirely. Shakily, she extended out her hand, the scroll tucked neatly inside it.
Lucrious grasped the object and released the knife’s grip on her throat, allowing her to droop gently to the ground. Unrolling it, he scanned it over, a crooked grin sprawling across his face. Stuffing it into his cloak, he exited the room, his wicked cackling accompanied by the crowing of the bird.
The oaken panels swung back, revealing before them a colorful court of nobles, adorned with the luxuries of the lands. Men and women alike, their little children clinging to them, lined the aisle. Near the back of the room, standing imperious over the others, a throne sat. And embraced by its cushioned comfort, Illana, Arrenia’s stepmother reclined, flocked by her daughter Isabel on one side and a slave from the exotic corners of the world on another.
Inevitable chatter rang incessantly through the air, interrupted only when all pairs of eyes, some nearly blinded by age, others having not yet seen the fruits of their days, turned upon the guard and the small, frightened girl he led behind him.
Arrenia hugged herself, looking into one emotionless face and then the next. With every sense, she felt their sharp pity. Noble after noble, lord, lady, and child alike- their large, sad eyes- burdening her with despair’s ready trust, until she stumbled, catching herself upon her hands.
Like one big wave, the sea of courtiers rose, their gasps eliciting her from her reverie. Warmth rose in her cheeks, and she scrambled to her feet, covering the remaining distance to the throne in long strides. Her eyes remained on the ground, her hands folded in front of her. She clenched her teeth together, subduing the tears tugging at her eyes. So, crushed beneath the world’s conflicting weights, she crumpled to the floor in front of the queen.
“Your Majesty.” A mere quiet tremble it was, but a tremble all the same.
“Stepdaughter, you have returned. What a pleasure to see you again.”
Arrenia opened her mouth, searching her brain for the right words. Several rose to her tongue, but the leaden lump in her throat choked all sound. Nervousness twisted her hands into a tight ball. Seconds dragging on, the acuteness of time stabbed at her soul. Silence sung of the expectancy of the court, ringing in her ears louder than any melody. A soft whimper escaped her lips as she raised a pleading look to the queen.
Arching her thick brows, the woman said, “Well?”
Arrenia held her sorrow in with soft little gasps. It was all she could do not to cry.
Sliding from her seat, Isabel moved with graceful strides over to the grieving girl. Her midnight- hued robe carpeted the steps, the silver stitched crescent moon glittering dully in the light of the large chandelier. The schism of speech deepened and widened with each lengthening moment. Forcing it upward, a cold bony finger poked at Arrenia’s chin.
“So cold…so dark…so sad….” Isabel whispered. A cruel smile tipped the scarlet corners of her mouth. “Mother, perhaps we should give her a bit more of a…well…warm welcome.”
Black curls swung in Illana’s face as she shook her head. “No, darling. I think it best that she hear the sad news in front of the court.”
Arrenia’s heart pounded in her chest, beating like a booming drum until she knew everyone could hear it. Chills rattled through her body, shaking her with the intensity of their ruthless ravage. More sad news? Her mind ran wild over the possibilities each idea worst than the next. She set her jaw, trying to shun them from her thoughts all the while bracing herself for the awful truth.
“But of course,” Isabel said. “I simply thought that she might need a bit of comforting. I, after all, know how hard it is to lose a father…let alone a brother…on one night. But, as always, you are in the right, Mother. It would be good for her to be crowned before the people, since it was, after all, the people’s decision to place her upon the throne. Besides, she would have hundreds of people to share her misery with.”
Shots of pained grief ran through Arrenia as stared into the dark eyes of hypnotic deception. Drenched in doleful mournings, her stepsister’s voice was. But the statuary masquerade of stone-faced sympathy failed to conceal the truth. The eyes staring down into her own twinkled in the merriment of their wicked amusement.
A slow tear meandered down her cheek, wandering aimlessly until it fell into the palm of her hand. Her jaw clenched against the sharp throbbing of her heart, she studied the girl.
Isabel. Bewitchingly beautiful Isabel with her bottomless promises and pretty words! She could say anything, unchecked and unlimited by the world, and her people still revered her radiant beauty and held her in high esteem. She could cut and hurt all she liked, and the land would never see past her pretty pretense. With every laborious pound of her wounded heart Arrenia recalled an instance when Isabel’s slicing sayings had gone by unpunished. And with her brother gone, she found herself trapped, cornered, and hopelessly helpless in the arms of her only family.
“For that is what you would want, someone to commiserate with, is it not, little sister?” The smile widened, revealing flawlessly white fangs.
Arrenia pulled herself free and fled down aisle, hands covering her face, shouting behind her, “Get away from me!”
A Lamb stepped from misty fog of sleep, entering into the old scholar’s mind. The trees around him creaked and swayed, their old boughs nearly breaking under the breath of a light wind. A deep, strange sound of wailed distress resonated in his ears as the Creature approached, as if the very depths of the trees were calling out. Their boughs lashed at the air, their leaves falling to the ground in a flurried frenzy as the sound escalated. Bewildered and afraid, the scholar curled into a tight ball upon his mat.
But then the clouds rolled away, and a facet of moonlight struck the Lamb, playing briefly upon what He carried in His mouth. It glittered and glowed, projecting its beauty throughout the forest. He dropped it gently into a soft carpet of lush grass and nudged it toward the man.
“The time is right. Give this to the one who shall conquer.”
“It will be done, my Lord.”
With a start, the old man jumped from sleep. He stared around the cave, eyes skimming the shadows spun on the wall. The hearth hissed its harrowing farewells as the flames vanquished in the ashes.
Chill pierced the ancient one’s skin, penetrating deep into his bones. He pulled his blanket closer about him, the scratch of the worn wool soothing to his soul. Like a languishing light, the dream faded from his view. The moonlight. The trees. The forest. Even the golden glow emanating from the object.
But the voice was still there. Still, silent, and insistent, it sang its message in his ear. Like a lute on a summer’s eve, the resonating notes flowed through the air. Beating out all sound. Making it the only voice to be heard.
Tossing his blanket aside, he stood to his entire hunched height. His walking stick forever tapping the ground, he probed his way through the darkness until he came to the door.
Rap, rap, rap!
“Cora!”
An old cracked voice croaked its way down the hall. Cora threw her shall over shoulders and picked up her candle, allowing the light to crawl into the corners. Her feet sped over the ground, guided by the call of her master’s voice. She stopped in front of the door and rattled the knob.
“Is all well, my master? Are you ill?”
The age-marked hinges screeched their protest as the door was drawn inward. Candlelight leapt upon the scholar’s face, its dancing spark tracing every line furrowed
hardships of the past.
He waved his hand. “No, my dear. I am quite well. All I ask is that you take me to the library. I…have a sudden urge to be among my books.”
The young girl bowed her fair head. “Anything you wish shall be done.”
While they traversed the narrow hall, the elderly gentleman’s hand searched the inner recesses of his sleeve. Extracting a ring of keys, he fingered them one by one.
The passage yawned and stretched before them, an endless twisting trail leading deeper into the heart of the cave. A soft draft of wind blew throughout it, sweeping dust into small flurries before gently setting it down again. The candle flickered and wavered, but never went out, firmly standing its ground in the breathing battle that threatened to put it out, leaving the world forever in darkness.
Gradually, they came upon an old wooden door, cracked and splintered from centuries of use. The scholar stepped forward and nudged it with the palm of his hand, forcing it to squeak open. He squinted into the dark recesses, his age-impaired vision unable to grasp the form of what lay beyond.
“Place that candle in the alcove there, Cora….Thank you, that’s much better.”
Illumination haloed walls lined with bookshelves, revealing the forsaken religious writings- the laws by which all of Sleyvink used to run. Books of the ages, abided by men and women of years ago, now stood beneath the layers of dust, heeded by only those called to the prehistoric priesthood. They cluttered the desk and carpeted the floor- wisdom untapped by all but the very wise.
The scholar, leaning upon his cane, limped over to the desk. Half seeing, half feeling, he traced the inner edge down to a small drawer. Fingering the key, he inserted it into the lock and twisted it with slow surety.
Click!
The compartment sprang open, its single content glittering in the candlelight. He removed it from its resting place with reverence, staring in awed silence as he held it up. Then, in hardly a murmur, soft speech whispered past his lips. “The half medallion of the Lamb, our Lord and our Light. Blessed be ye, for ye will take part in the redemption of mankind!”
With that, he closed his withered hand about it, sending up a silent prayer. Oh, Lamb, keep it safe. Let the bearer who is chosen serve you well, for long and dark is the road ahead of him!
“How may I serve you, my master?”
The man shuffled back towards the doorway and grasped the girl’s shoulder. “Run Cora. Run all the way to Sleyvink. Tell the king that I have a great prize for the tournament. Say it is a great prize, and it must be given to him who will conquer.”
Clouds of gray hovered over the city of Sleyvink as the solemn procession made its way through the gates. Women lined the streets, their children before them, watching warily as the weary travelers rode by, trying to spot loved ones.
From his mount, Castor looked upon the bereaved expressions born by the passersby, and he knew why. Although they had succeeded in destroying a good part of Lydacia’s defenses, many lives lay wasted upon the cause. The newly widowed broke out into wailing as the last of the men rode by, marking the somber city with their screams of grief. Some knelt upon the ground, tossing handfuls of dirt into their hair. Others, weeping, fed the last of their coins into the hungry hands of magicians and fortunetellers. One girl of about fourteen even tugged on his leg, begging him to run her through with his sword and end her misery. With a slow shake of his head, Castor urged his horse on, his mind made up. There was no joy in the city of Sleyvink.
“Your Majesty! Your Majesty!” a young voice shouted above the commotion. A girl shouldered her way through the multitude, her carrot red hair like a streak of sunshine in the sea of black scalps. Guards closed in around the king, making his passage nigh on impossible. Castor reined in his horse, a reminiscent pang of pain pounding in his chest. That hair. That long, golden-red hair.
Sweeping his lids with a swipe of his hand, he shook his head. His heart burned deep inside his chest, tingling every nerve with the tale of its lovelorn sorrow. He closed his eyes, trying blot out her memory with endless black bliss. The blood sizzled in his veins, the scorching simmer scourging him as it coursed through his body.
Setting his jaw, he clenched his fists. He must compose himself. Was he not a warrior? She was a woman! Had he not fought stronger foes than this?
Oh, but what a woman! Sweet and shy, and yet he sensed something else, some inner resilience. His pulse quickened as she danced across the field of his imagination.
A tug came upon his mantle. “My liege! My liege!”
With bittersweet sentiment, he opened his eyes, allowing reality to flood through him. She was his past. This was his future.
He looked down at the fair-haired girl and forced a grin. “Hello, Cora. What errand gives us the honor of meeting once again?
“’Tis my master, my lord. He has a very important message for his Majesty the King, but the crowd is so large I cannot reach.”
“Then I shall deliver it for you.”
She gripped the strap of the horse’s girdle, pulling herself closer in, the tone of her voice tumbling from its wild shout to a scarce whisper. “It’s important. Too important to be made known here. Allow me to accompany you to the palace. Please. The message must go to the ear of the king and none other’s.”
Castor pressed his lips into a fine line of indecision, eyeing up and down the girl who struggled to keep step with the trot of his steed. She had always been good and gracious to him and his family. True, she had never cared much for Lucrious, but, come to think of it, neither did he. No sword or bow adorned her person, only a small, traditionally-stylized hunting knife which accompanied all Sleyvinkians whenever they should fancy to leave their abodes and venture into the robber-ridden streets. The corners of his mouth began to tip into a smile, and he held out his hand to her.
“Fine then. Accompany me you shall. But I shouldn’t dare to let a lady go on foot.”
She took his hand, and he hoisted her behind him, instructing her to fasten her grip about him. Through the thoroughfare they ploughed, the scars of war reflected on the saddened expressions. Castor didn’t dare to look at destitution’s deathly face, preferring rather to concentrate on the crude castle before him.
Lurking in the looming shadows elongating across the abandoned hall, Lucrious pressed an ear to the wall. Its rough, sharp cold sank into his cheek, biting it with all its forbidding ferocity. His mouth curved into a sly smile as muffled mumblings emanated into his ear.
Surreptitiously spying, the painted eyes of his ancestors looked on as he softly stroked the smooth, black feathers of the bird perched upon his shoulder, speaking to it in inaudible undertones. The sly, cutting words flowed from his tongue, sifting slowly into the winged creature’s brain. It cocked its head, watching him with hypnotic attention, their gazes locked in comprehensive communication. Nodding, it soaked in the ancient Sleyvinkian language, assimilating everything into its memory.
The shadows suddenly summoned him into their depths as the door creaked upon. As candlelight crept into the dark corners, he pressed himself back, seeking to become one with the dull stones upon which he sought shelter. Covering the beak of the bird with his hand, he waited, his breath drawn in with slow, shallow drags.
His father exited the room, his wife striding with graceful pride beside him. Their words slurred together into a low hum as they sped from their lips, urgent and barely above a murmur.
Behind them, a second flicker of light fanned its way into the world. Cora came quietly, her thoughts masked by the blank white slate of her face that was determinable in the darkness. She cradled a scroll in the crook of her arm. Lucrious cast his eye upon it, its scarlet thread glowing crimson in the candle’s glow.
Cold chills cut through Cora as her arm snagged into the snare of an unseen grasp. She stopped, not daring to breathe, not daring to move. The taut, terrible grip constricted her flesh, her hand turning the ghoulish gray of marked demise. Goosebumps pricked the surface of her skin as shadowy silhouette engulfed her own. Eyes warily watching, she tensed, bracing herself for whatever must come.
The wind howled through the open window, tumbling into the corridor, its ferocity unchecked. Swept away by its murderess breath, the candle flickered faintly, then went out. Darkness crowded Cora’s mind, seeping into her soul, dilating her senses until the very stones had eyes and the people portrayed in the tapestries smiled schemingly down at her.
“Scared, are you?”
The candleholder clattered to the floor as the whisper slid into her ear. Turning about, she started once again.
A man stood before her, his features cloaked in a robe of mystery. He stood tall and erect, clenching his fingers into her. Out of the cavernous depths of blackness which covered the eyes, beaconed his glare. His nose and mouth jutted from the darkness, glowing a rotting white in the moonlight. She stepped back, her gaze fixated upon him in horror.
He extended out a pale, fleshy hand to her, the bird upon his shoulder squawking hideously. “Don’t be afraid, little one. All I wish to know is information. What is you are holding?”
She stepped further back. “It is my master’s. I don’t recall you being among the few that it interests.”
The silence about them screamed of deadly doom. Cora’s ears rang the resonating drum of her heart, her knees buckling beneath the burden of fear. With every recoiling retreat, he took a step nearer, his lips bent in a belyingly cruel smile. His fingers slid over the handle of a dagger.
“My interests are my own, and I know them full well. Give me whatever it is you carry, and no harm will be done.”
With one hand, she reached out, her grip groping upon the stones until their sharpness summoned scarlet drops of blood. Using this as a guide, she slowly began slipping her way into the shadows.
Her mind reeled as she eyed the dagger. All she desired was to be free of it all, to turn and run. But that would be a grave mistake. For that, he could have her hunted down and killed. She clutched the scroll tightly in her hand, wondering whether or not she should relinquish it into his power.
She shook the thought from her mind. A decree of her master’s! How could she? Her jawline tightened, and she stared defiantly into the man’s unseen eyes.
With a blurring movement, the man pinned her to the wall, baring the blade of the dagger against the pumping pulse of her throat. It bore into her skin, her chest swelling as it blockaded breath. An unheard plea to an unseen God wrenched its way out of her mouth. Sobs rattled through her, soft and seemingly unperceived.
Lucrious leaned into his victim, the edge of words slicing deep into her soul. “Many lives has this blade taken. Much damage has it done. If it did all it then, what is to stop it from doing it now?”
Perspiration pouring down her face, Cora gasped and gagged. Small, red rivers trickled into the groove of her neck, tickling her with a tinge of horror. The night seemed to close in around her, suffocating her in the closeness of its proximity. Seconds slurring together, the moments of her life drained with every tick, tick, tick of her internal clock.
Was it really worth it? Was the secret of the medallion really that great? She glanced from the scroll in her hand back up into his eyes.
Life versus loyalty. Loyalty versus life. Her head pounded until it hurt, the knife ever pressing against her throat. And those eyes, those ever-hidden eyes, boring through the blackness that shrouded them penetrating her skin and slicing to the soul.
“You’d best hurry,” he said. “I’m not going to wait.”
Cora could feel the thump of her heart slowing steadily. She knew she didn’t have much time. The sweat of her hand bled into the paper as she clenched in her palm.
Should she do it?
Burning in her chest, her lungs begged for air. The darkness was closer now than ever, almost blotting her vision entirely. Shakily, she extended out her hand, the scroll tucked neatly inside it.
Lucrious grasped the object and released the knife’s grip on her throat, allowing her to droop gently to the ground. Unrolling it, he scanned it over, a crooked grin sprawling across his face. Stuffing it into his cloak, he exited the room, his wicked cackling accompanied by the crowing of the bird.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Creating Francine Bentley- the Complicated Fraud Facade
Francine Bentley. Friend to all she knows. Sweet and hospitable. Middle-aged and cultured. Masquerading murderess.
What? You might be thinking, but you read right. A Party to Murder, written S.O.S. (Shine On Stage) drama director Sharon Manacapilli, centers on this deceptively docile individual and her plight to keep the Seven Chimneys inheritance for herself. But, when she hosts a birthday party for her best but ever-forgetful friend Abigail Pennyworth, she finds some of the nosey party guests know a little too much. As bodies are found dead and tension builds, Francine begins to aim the threats at herself. But, with the rest of the curious assortment she calls friends terrified into taking action, can she really keep her secret?
This is the character that I want to audition for. She'll a bit different than any character I've ever done, because her cool calm has to be backed by a motive. Many actors play their lines. If I want Francine, I'm going to have to play my part.
Perhaps the hardest aspect about Ms. Bentley is that she's two-fold- sweet to your face but plotting behind your back. However, she hardly has a minute to herself on the stage where her true nature can be revealed. How is it done, then?
Well, part of acting is reacting. When I said above that I'll have to play my part in order to get Ms. Bentley, I meant that I'll have to shed Brittany altogether for however long I must and step into Francine's shoes. A sweet disposition and a smile can easily be adopted by almost any false personality, but only for a time. Often times our expressions, the way we hold ourselves, the hardness or softness of our eyes, or a habit such as the popping of fingers or twirling of hair betray our true emotions when we do not realize it. And that's how I'm going to play Francine's part. It'll be the subtle nuances- the wringing of hands, the cold probing of her eyes, watching everyone's every move, the reaction to the bodies being discovered, and perhaps even her nervousness when encountered by the police. But when she speaks, all of it will evaporate into an inviting smile, keeping the audience guessing.
And that's probably what I love most about Francine. The magnanimous facet of her role is not what she says, it's the screaming silence waiting to explode when her slyness sits back, watching all even as she schemes the fates of some.
But what's especially hard about her? She's not me at all! In fact- she's just about as opposite me as you could get! She'd be a lot of work, and I'd probably not master her until the night of the performance, but if acting were being who you really are, would it be called acting? I doubt it. Plus I can always thank God for the chance to stretch myself, try new things, and reach for the stars.
What? You might be thinking, but you read right. A Party to Murder, written S.O.S. (Shine On Stage) drama director Sharon Manacapilli, centers on this deceptively docile individual and her plight to keep the Seven Chimneys inheritance for herself. But, when she hosts a birthday party for her best but ever-forgetful friend Abigail Pennyworth, she finds some of the nosey party guests know a little too much. As bodies are found dead and tension builds, Francine begins to aim the threats at herself. But, with the rest of the curious assortment she calls friends terrified into taking action, can she really keep her secret?
This is the character that I want to audition for. She'll a bit different than any character I've ever done, because her cool calm has to be backed by a motive. Many actors play their lines. If I want Francine, I'm going to have to play my part.
Perhaps the hardest aspect about Ms. Bentley is that she's two-fold- sweet to your face but plotting behind your back. However, she hardly has a minute to herself on the stage where her true nature can be revealed. How is it done, then?
Well, part of acting is reacting. When I said above that I'll have to play my part in order to get Ms. Bentley, I meant that I'll have to shed Brittany altogether for however long I must and step into Francine's shoes. A sweet disposition and a smile can easily be adopted by almost any false personality, but only for a time. Often times our expressions, the way we hold ourselves, the hardness or softness of our eyes, or a habit such as the popping of fingers or twirling of hair betray our true emotions when we do not realize it. And that's how I'm going to play Francine's part. It'll be the subtle nuances- the wringing of hands, the cold probing of her eyes, watching everyone's every move, the reaction to the bodies being discovered, and perhaps even her nervousness when encountered by the police. But when she speaks, all of it will evaporate into an inviting smile, keeping the audience guessing.
And that's probably what I love most about Francine. The magnanimous facet of her role is not what she says, it's the screaming silence waiting to explode when her slyness sits back, watching all even as she schemes the fates of some.
But what's especially hard about her? She's not me at all! In fact- she's just about as opposite me as you could get! She'd be a lot of work, and I'd probably not master her until the night of the performance, but if acting were being who you really are, would it be called acting? I doubt it. Plus I can always thank God for the chance to stretch myself, try new things, and reach for the stars.
Friday, November 14, 2008
A Quick Excerpt
Arrenia stepped into the palace, a wave of bliss bathing her being, the radiance of her soul resounding through her twinkling eyes. She shed her cloak into the hands of the doormen, elegantly striding forward, face uplifted, arms outstretched. Twirling about, she laughed, watching the bright hues of gold, purple, and scarlet blend together in a brilliant banner of color. Her feet strode gracefully over the marble floor, as if to the measured beat of some inaudible melody. She spun about, her skirt spinning round her legs until she stopped, her cheeks flushed crimson.
“Oh, how wonderful it is to be home!” she said.
The guard tried not to let his troubled emotions bleed onto his face. “Yes, quite…Now come, the queen waits upon her throne.”
They made their way down the hall, Arrenia drinking the familiar sights of her lofty abode. Tapestries dangled from the ceiling, their interwoven threads chronicling important events in the lives of the de la Cornias. From carved out alcoves, candles projected their light into the room. Large paintings spanned the wall, depicting the deceased members of the family with artful clarity.
And it was before one of these that Arrenia stopped….
Squinting in the dim light, she barely dared to breathe. No! It couldn’t be! Was it?
“M…m…my father.” The word issued from her lips, barely heeded. A knot tightened in her stomach. Before the guard could even answer, she knew what the truth must be.
“Dead, my Lady. He has been at peace since the day you vanished.”
Arrenia pressed her fingers into a fist, crushing them with the strength of her grief. Her heart bled the tears she had not the strength to cry. Head drooping between her shoulders, she kept her back towards the guard, allowing a veil of hair to drape over her face. Lids clenched a taut seal across her vision, attempting to shun from her sight the painful depiction of grief masquerading beneath the pretty hues of paint. Pleasant memories flowed across her mind, deepening the wound wrought by wrongdoing. She knew well the slaying hands of Sleyvink had slaughtered her father, obliterating for eternity his smiling face and laughing eyes. The tear in her soul widened, threatening to rip apart.
Why, Ino? Why?!
No answer.
The guard behind her fidgeted nervously. “Perhaps I had best go tell her Highness that your ladyship is awaiting her summons?”
Not even glancing in his direction, Arrenia said, “Of course.”
Haste shuffled him out of the room. With a sigh of sadness, Arrenia de la Cornia sank to her knees. She was alone. Truly alone.
Castor pulled the strings, narrowing the neck of the sack until the ends met. All around him, the busy bustle of people resonated through the camp. Laughter and joy crackled through the air…they were going home.
The boy supposed he should have been excited. Sleyvink, his beautiful home! The streets with vendors calling out their wares, coins flying from one set of hands to another. The incessant voice of the caller standing proudly at his podium, proclaiming the latest news. The grassy plains, dull yet vibrant with untold mysteries and secrets. And the castle looming over them all, tall and foreboding, like a restless centurion standing his post.
He sighed. Where was the magical feeling that used to tug at his insides? Many a time before, he had embraced with great joy the land of his birth- why now did it seem so inferior, so loathsome to return?
“How goes your packing?” a voice behind him said.
“Well enough, Mother,” he said, shrugging the thought from his mind.
Long strides carrying her across the grass, she stood beside him, watching his hands stumble over each other. Arched shoulders slumped limply, his fingers scurrying to and fro, tripping over the items set before him. His gaze remained fixed upon his work, refusing to meet her probing hazel eyes.
“Why so dejected, my son?”
Gulping, he said, “Nothing.”
“Think you can fool me, do you?”
No answer. A small glisten glossed his eyes. Tongue roving over his lips, he stared at the cloth wall flapping in the wind momentarily.
“It’s the girl, is it not?”
Terror’s sharp claws dug into his face, scarring him with their impression. Chill spread from his soul, tingling his nerves and freezing him in his place. The dagger he held dropped to the table below.
The woman gave out a short laugh, slipping her arm gently about him. “I am a mother, dear. Do not think I did not notice how you would light up whenever she walked in the room!”
A fleeting smile crossed the boy’s lips, the warmth of his mother’s jovial manner thawing the cold that held him prisoner. It was not long, however, before the expression vanished, replaced by the redundant countenance of sadness.
“And it is now for her you grieve, is it not?
Nodding, he sniffed. Stuffing the dagger into a bag, he tried to concentrate on his work. He clenched his teeth together, trying to squash her memory between them.
“Please, dearie, not so sad, if it please you. There are plenty of other women in the world.”
Castor sighed. “But I can only give my heart to one.”
The woman stopped, taken aback by his words. Pity stirred her soul as she studied her son, the fruit of her womb. For a moment, she saw his little infant face, hallooed in his swaddling blanket. Sleepy eyes shut tight- the faint sound of a violin, from somewhere in her memory, lilting out a lullaby. Her finger embraced by his little fist…how could this young man before her be the same boy she had cradled in her arms? He had grown so fast- did she even know him?
“Well, the jousting tournament’s in a mere fortnight. I hear it will be Sleyvink’s finest,” she said.
“But I’m not even sure I want to return!”
Her mouth curved knowingly. “Oh, you will be glad enough once you have arrived. And the contest ought to take the girl from your mind.” She took his hand and kissed it. “I’m proud of you, Castor. More proud than you could ever know. Now, if you’ll beg my indulgence, I must return to the King and help him with his packing. I will see you tonight at dinner.”
He paused as she turned away from him. The words she uttered left him neither warm nor cold, but only desolate and empty. Yet sincerity sung through her words. She understood, and in that he could take comfort.
“Very well, Mother.”
“Oh, how wonderful it is to be home!” she said.
The guard tried not to let his troubled emotions bleed onto his face. “Yes, quite…Now come, the queen waits upon her throne.”
They made their way down the hall, Arrenia drinking the familiar sights of her lofty abode. Tapestries dangled from the ceiling, their interwoven threads chronicling important events in the lives of the de la Cornias. From carved out alcoves, candles projected their light into the room. Large paintings spanned the wall, depicting the deceased members of the family with artful clarity.
And it was before one of these that Arrenia stopped….
Squinting in the dim light, she barely dared to breathe. No! It couldn’t be! Was it?
“M…m…my father.” The word issued from her lips, barely heeded. A knot tightened in her stomach. Before the guard could even answer, she knew what the truth must be.
“Dead, my Lady. He has been at peace since the day you vanished.”
Arrenia pressed her fingers into a fist, crushing them with the strength of her grief. Her heart bled the tears she had not the strength to cry. Head drooping between her shoulders, she kept her back towards the guard, allowing a veil of hair to drape over her face. Lids clenched a taut seal across her vision, attempting to shun from her sight the painful depiction of grief masquerading beneath the pretty hues of paint. Pleasant memories flowed across her mind, deepening the wound wrought by wrongdoing. She knew well the slaying hands of Sleyvink had slaughtered her father, obliterating for eternity his smiling face and laughing eyes. The tear in her soul widened, threatening to rip apart.
Why, Ino? Why?!
No answer.
The guard behind her fidgeted nervously. “Perhaps I had best go tell her Highness that your ladyship is awaiting her summons?”
Not even glancing in his direction, Arrenia said, “Of course.”
Haste shuffled him out of the room. With a sigh of sadness, Arrenia de la Cornia sank to her knees. She was alone. Truly alone.
Castor pulled the strings, narrowing the neck of the sack until the ends met. All around him, the busy bustle of people resonated through the camp. Laughter and joy crackled through the air…they were going home.
The boy supposed he should have been excited. Sleyvink, his beautiful home! The streets with vendors calling out their wares, coins flying from one set of hands to another. The incessant voice of the caller standing proudly at his podium, proclaiming the latest news. The grassy plains, dull yet vibrant with untold mysteries and secrets. And the castle looming over them all, tall and foreboding, like a restless centurion standing his post.
He sighed. Where was the magical feeling that used to tug at his insides? Many a time before, he had embraced with great joy the land of his birth- why now did it seem so inferior, so loathsome to return?
“How goes your packing?” a voice behind him said.
“Well enough, Mother,” he said, shrugging the thought from his mind.
Long strides carrying her across the grass, she stood beside him, watching his hands stumble over each other. Arched shoulders slumped limply, his fingers scurrying to and fro, tripping over the items set before him. His gaze remained fixed upon his work, refusing to meet her probing hazel eyes.
“Why so dejected, my son?”
Gulping, he said, “Nothing.”
“Think you can fool me, do you?”
No answer. A small glisten glossed his eyes. Tongue roving over his lips, he stared at the cloth wall flapping in the wind momentarily.
“It’s the girl, is it not?”
Terror’s sharp claws dug into his face, scarring him with their impression. Chill spread from his soul, tingling his nerves and freezing him in his place. The dagger he held dropped to the table below.
The woman gave out a short laugh, slipping her arm gently about him. “I am a mother, dear. Do not think I did not notice how you would light up whenever she walked in the room!”
A fleeting smile crossed the boy’s lips, the warmth of his mother’s jovial manner thawing the cold that held him prisoner. It was not long, however, before the expression vanished, replaced by the redundant countenance of sadness.
“And it is now for her you grieve, is it not?
Nodding, he sniffed. Stuffing the dagger into a bag, he tried to concentrate on his work. He clenched his teeth together, trying to squash her memory between them.
“Please, dearie, not so sad, if it please you. There are plenty of other women in the world.”
Castor sighed. “But I can only give my heart to one.”
The woman stopped, taken aback by his words. Pity stirred her soul as she studied her son, the fruit of her womb. For a moment, she saw his little infant face, hallooed in his swaddling blanket. Sleepy eyes shut tight- the faint sound of a violin, from somewhere in her memory, lilting out a lullaby. Her finger embraced by his little fist…how could this young man before her be the same boy she had cradled in her arms? He had grown so fast- did she even know him?
“Well, the jousting tournament’s in a mere fortnight. I hear it will be Sleyvink’s finest,” she said.
“But I’m not even sure I want to return!”
Her mouth curved knowingly. “Oh, you will be glad enough once you have arrived. And the contest ought to take the girl from your mind.” She took his hand and kissed it. “I’m proud of you, Castor. More proud than you could ever know. Now, if you’ll beg my indulgence, I must return to the King and help him with his packing. I will see you tonight at dinner.”
He paused as she turned away from him. The words she uttered left him neither warm nor cold, but only desolate and empty. Yet sincerity sung through her words. She understood, and in that he could take comfort.
“Very well, Mother.”
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