The lonesome crown, p.1
The Lonesome Crown, page 1
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FOR ALL
THE BRAVE WOMEN WHO MADE THE HEARTRENDING DECISION TO GIVE UP A CHILD FOR ADOPTION—SPECIFICALLY MY BIOLOGICAL MOTHER, SHAYLA SANDERS, WHO BROUGHT ME INTO THIS WORLD. MAY YOU ALWAYS KNOW THAT I MADE SOMETHING OF THIS LIFE YOU GAVE ME. AND FOR ALL THE BRAVE WOMEN WHO ADOPTED THE CHILD OF ANOTHER AND LOVED THAT CHILD AS THEIR OWN—SPECIFICALLY MAXINE DURFEE, WHO RAISED ME IN ALL THE RIGHT WAYS.
INTRODUCTION AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
In the introduction to The Forgetting Moon, I mentioned that I was adopted and that I had never met a blood relative. I talked of how I related to all the movies and books about clichéd orphan farm boys like Luke Skywalker, Rand al’Thor, Jon Snow, etc. Those stories meant a lot to me as a kid and still do. I reckon that’s why my own fantasy series is full of parentless children trying to find their way in a harsh world and accomplishing great things on their journey.
Well, the introduction to this book is a bit different. See, nowadays, all you gotta do is spit in a tube, place your spit in the mail, and BOOM! Through the sorcery of DNA, you can find your long-lost relatives! Right? Actually, it is about that easy. In fact, I did just that a few years ago and located my birth mother through Ancestry.com. It was a dream come true, a mystery solved, and one of the major highlights of my life. It was also interesting to discover that my birth mother was but a lonely sixteen-year-old living in Las Vegas on that glorious day on which I was born. And clearly my beloved Oakland Raiders moved to Las Vegas in honor of the event, thank you very much.
All kidding aside, as you saw on the previous page, I dedicated this book to both my biological mother and my adoptive mother. And, alas, before I proceed further, I must now apologize for dedicating such an R-rated book to such fine and wonderful women.
Again, never-ending gratitude goes out to Matt Bialer, the best literary agent in the universe, and to Stefanie Diaz for foreign sales. Thanks also to Klett-Cotta in Germany and Canelo in the UK. My editor at Saga Press, Joe Monti, still deserves all the credit for drafting me into the big leagues and creating such wonderfully designed books. Please read my afterword at the end of this book to learn how truly awesome he is. Thanks also to Valerie Shea and Simon & Schuster for all the heroic, time-consuming, and precise editing. She deserves all the praise and thanks. A big thanks also to production editor Alexandre Su, managing editor Caroline Pallotta, editorial assistant Jela Lewter, VP deputy publisher Jennifer Long, and Chloe Gray in production along with Kayleigh Webb in publicity and marketing. A huge shout-out also to Alexi Vandenberg at Bard’s Tower for promoting The Forgetting Moon and The Blackest Heart at conventions around the country. Mapmaker Robert Lazzaretti still deserves a big thanks, as does designer Lisa Litwack and illustrator Richard Anderson for creating such great covers. And I cannot forget thanking voice narrator Tim Gerard Reynolds and Recorded Books for making both The Forgetting Moon and The Blackest Heart Amazon/Audible.com bestsellers.
Thanks also to Stephen King, Mötley Crüe, and the Las Vegas Raiders.
Only through silver and blood and the green elixir of life can the dead rise again. So I ask, would summoning the demons up from the underworld be a dread or glorious thing? For in the end it is life renewed. And that is true Absolution.
—THE MOON SCROLLS OF MIA
CHAPTER ONE STEFAN WAYLAND
6TH DAY OF THE FIRE MOON, 999TH YEAR OF LAIJON
WROCLAW, GUL KANA
Scorch and blood and the cold taste of terror hung stark in the air.
“Who are you?” the frightened girl asked, shivering on the rocky slope below Stefan Wayland and Mud Undr’Fut. However, the question was not meant for Stefan or the small oghul in ragged leather armor crouching behind the lichen-covered boulder, hidden from view. Instead, the girl’s fright-filled eyes danced between the five whip-wielding Aalavarrè Solas and the black saber-toothed lion on the crimson-splattered hillside directly above her.
There were a total of six dead fishermen strewn between the Aalavarrè and the girl, six innocent men cut down by silver whips of scorch, their mounts cut down too. The Aalavarrè had wasted little time in killing. And Stefan could tell that Mud’s fangs were in dire need of quenching. The oghul’s pursed gray lips concealed gums that were aflame and swollen, and his eyes were aglow at the sight of so much human blood. Mud gripped a small curved dagger in his gnarled fist, his entire body itching to go down and slake his thirst on the dead. Stefan put forth a hand, holding the small oghul back.
His own gaze was focused on the white sailboat bobbing in the quay below and the four familiar castaways: Nail, Val-Draekin, the broad-faced oghul who had taken the black angel stone, and the girl with the white feathers tied in her hair who had stolen Gisela, the bow he had carried from Gallows Haven.
“Where do you come from?” the girl repeated, panic and pleading in her voice.
“We come from a place far from here,” Icelyn the White, firstborn of the blood cauldrons of Hragna’Ar, answered. The Aalavarrè’s voice was silky and hollow, her pale white face hidden behind a silver mask of Skull, white dragon-scale armor shimmering under a long black cloak. Her scorch whip dripped quills of hissing silver into the grass.
Behind Icelyn were four other Aalavarrè Solas, also known as the Cauldron Born: Raakel-Jael the Green, Basque-Alia the Blue, Sashenya the Black, and Aamari-Laada the Red, all of them in colorful dragon-scale armor and similar black cloaks, silver eyes roaming the dismal landscape behind their own silver masks of Skull.
The black saber-toothed lion moved down the slope toward the girl, its own silver eyes naught but flat blank slates as it sank its cruel silver teeth into her ribs. The girl slumped to the ground, straining hands clawing at the sunbaked soil. A silent scream—and she tried to blink away the pain. Her slender body writhed as her terrified gaze searched the barren hillside for help that would never come.
“For a human, she had such soft, beautiful eyes,” Mud whispered, still crouching behind the rock. Stefan watched the girl’s lungs cease their heaving under the lion’s long teeth. “And she bleeds so red.” Mud licked his lips.
The white handkerchief tied in the girl’s hair was soaked red now, her white dress, too. With silver claws, the large black cat tore open her stomach, exposing purple guts. The lion’s previously flat silver eyes now glinted shards of warm sunlight as its long teeth bled the girl colorless.
Stefan was certain that once the five whip-wielding Aalavarrè were gone but before reporting back to Sledg H’Mar, Mud would creep down the slope and greedily sate his thirst on the fresh pallid neck of the girl, draining her of what blood was left. Though it would not be a pure bloodletting, what nourishment Mud could glean from the recently dead would be better than the squirming gutter rats and field gophers he usually complained about. Besides, One must partake in the blessed miracles of Hragna’Ar, Mud was fond of saying.
Stefan was also one of those miracles, born again of scorch and blood and Hragna’Ar sacrifice, or so Mud had told him. But Stefan was confused about a lot of things Mud related. Supposedly he had been fed the green elixir of life by the Cauldron Born, eyes once again opened, shattered legs fully healed, born anew of the blood cauldrons of Hragna’Ar. And like Mud Undr’Fut, Stefan was now a servant of the Aalavarrè Solas, beholden to them and the return of the Skulls. He had been appointed as such by the Hragna’Ar high priest, Sledg H’Mar, the most menacing oghul Stefan had ever seen, the one they reported to daily. Mud Undr’Fut liked to sneak around when dealing with the Aalavarrè, he liked to remain hidden. But Stefan was under no illusion that the Aalavarrè were being fooled. They were lucid and aware at all times. They knew exactly where Stefan and the oghul hid.
“Harsh and vibrant these humans are in this sacrament of death,” Icelyn the White said, watching the black cat sift through the innards of the girl.
Stefan watched the cat feast. He felt a kinship to the large cat that he could not explain. Mud claimed the cruel lion had also been reborn through Hragna’Ar, pulled from the same sacrificial cauldron of scorch and blood as Stefan.
“Vibrant in life and then so pale in death,” Basque-Alia the Blue, third-born of Hragna’Ar and the blood cauldrons, agreed. “Humans die beautifully, their smell in death like a perfume.”
“Everything is so vivid and bright and clear in this new world, the Great Above,” Icelyn went on. “The very landscape has been carved as though with a magical instrument, the water so crystal clear and full of silver fishes that sparkle in the
Stefan had a vague memory of listening to a traveling Vallè minstrel sing tavern songs in the Grayken Spear with the same pleasant, poetic verse as these five Aalavarrè. Their talk soothed him, though it was often talk of death and blood. Mud always reported to Sledg H’Mar what the Cauldron Born said. That was why he and Stefan were here with them today. Hidden. Observe and report. Even though the faces of the five Cauldron Born were veiled behind silver masks of Skull, Stefan could still discern their individual voices.
“My eternal soul now quivers with life and purpose,” Aamari-Laada the Red, fifth-born of Hragna’Ar and the blood cauldrons, said. One long hand gripping his own scorch whip tight, Aamari-Laada reached his other hand up to the red dragon-scale breastplate covering his chest, fingers tracing the myriad of circles, squares, crosses, crescent moons, and shooting stars that decorated his armor.
“We are roaming, stalking, hunting once again with Viper,” Icelyn agreed. “And an enthralling hunt it is, to make extinct the race of men, to avenge the genocide visited upon the Aalavarrè so long ago, to erase the memory of the War of Cleansing, to make right that Vicious War of the Demons, to rid ourselves of all memory of the underworld and its black, colorless depths, to serve again the Dragon, to bring about Fiery Absolution, to worship again at the feet of our Immortal Lord.”
“For I am no demon,” Aamari-Laada said, “and dragons are no curse.”
“This is what the eternal soul was created for,” Icelyn said, motioning to the girl and the six dead fishermen on the slope, “To become one with Viper in the long hunt. For it is a hunt uncultivated and raw, shrieking with fiery pain. The song of Viper. And the severed bodies on the hillside below have sung that song. Their lifeless crimson bodies are shrieking it still, their sacred melody doing Viper honor.”
“And I myself can hear that pure cry of the human dead sail high and loud toward starshine and moonlight,” Aamari-Laada the Red agreed. “It sails high toward the eternal God of open blue sky, toward Viper, the one who carved out the underworld.”
Icelyn said, “And that song also leads us toward the dreamer of dreams, the maiden with the wrought-iron soul, toward the Dragon, wherever he may be, the ones who shall guide us back to that cross-shaped altar and our Immortal Lord.”
They were all alike, the five Aalavarrè Solas, all of them speaking in mysterious verse, all of them in their dragon-scale armor of red, green, black, blue, and white, all of them with their silver masks of Skull. Yes, they were all similar, they were like Stefan and the black saber-toothed lion, Mud claimed, all born of the sacrificial blood cauldrons of Hragna’Ar, all awaiting the arrival of the Dragon and his vast armies of Vallè, all of them born to usher in Fiery Absolution, all of them preparing for the cross-shaped altar and the return of their Immortal Lord. They seemed to worship some God they called Viper.
Mud Undr’Fut had explained it all to Stefan repeatedly. The diminutive oghul had also claimed he had helped the high priest, Sledg H’Mar, in the Hragna’Ar births of all five Aalavarrè. A task that did Mud and his long-dead kin great honor. As for the Aalavarrè Solas themselves, the killing of both humans and animals did Viper great honor. And, as Mud explained, Hragna’Ar was all about the sharing of honor and bringing about the return of the Skulls. And Stefan was part of that plan. Found dead some half-moon ago, he had been gathered up from the woods and born again with the saber-toothed lion. Stefan and the large cat had been a “test” for a greater Hragna’Ar resurrection yet to come.
Stefan recalled only some snippets of Gallows Haven and his life before, but through a haze darkly. The memories were all there, but covered over in smoke and mist. What he did remember of his last day alive was the Vallè maiden, Seita, betraying him, stealing Afflicted Fire and Blackest Heart and the red angel stone from him. He recalled clenching the black angel stone tight in his fist until a strange girl in a green cloak and white feathers tied in her hair appeared from the woods with a burly oghul and stole even the black stone and his precious longbow named after his lost love, Gisela.
Now he was here with Mud and the five Cauldron Born, watching as the two thieves drifted silently free of the quay in a small white fishing boat. And Nail and Val-Draekin sailed with them. Has everyone been born anew of scorch and blood? Stefan had watched Nail and Val-Draekin die in the glacier. He had watched the boiling river of ice suck them down into its murderous depths and kill them.
Or am I still trapped in Deadwood Gate? Is the curse of the mines still warping my brain as Culpa Barra said it would? Or has everyone been resurrected like me?
His mind was in turmoil as he watched Nail and Val-Draekin sail away. In some ways he wanted to call out to them. But he remained hidden behind the boulder with Mud, sweating under his leather armor, watching as the white vessel carrying his precious longbow and the four castaways sailed away, not quite knowing what to think of his new life, not quite knowing if any of what he was experiencing was real. “You have new friends now,” Mud had told him not long ago. “Those who brought you back to life, the Aalavarrè Solas.”
But were his new friends really these cold and merciless killers? Icelyn the White was clearly the leader of the Aalavarrè Solas. She was the firstborn, and like Sashenya the Black, a female. Icelyn was also the coldest of the Aalavarrè, pure venom living within her eternal soul. ’Twas Icelyn who had slain every single horse on the slope below with her barbed scorch whip of dripping starlight. ’Twas Icelyn who allowed the saber-toothed lion to feast on the flesh of the human girl, its long silver teeth now scarlet with death, silver eyes now shining and cruel.
On the barren knoll just below Stefan and Mud’s hiding place, Icelyn removed her silver mask of Skull, revealing the stark white face and silver eyes of a Cauldron Born. Her metallic gaze traveled down the boulder-strewn bluff toward the small port nestled within the windy inlet. The other four Aalavarrè followed Icelyn’s cold stare, all of them watching as the boat carrying Nail and Val-Draekin floated away. It was a relatively small vessel with a tall mast and an unfurled sail that now set out over the choppy bay.
“Are we to allow them such easy escape?” Sashenya the Black, fourth-born of the blood cauldrons of Hragna’Ar, said. Her voice was a hollow, silken echo from behind her mask of silver. “Death and decay. I feel the power of the black star stone goes with them. It calls to me.”
Stefan could also feel the black stone’s distant call. I should never have touched any of those cursed stones. Death and decay was what they were. One of the star stones killed Gisela. One of the stones likely killed me! He looked down at his own hands. Yet I live when I should not! Hovering at the edges of his memory was that image of a broken boy sitting against a white aspen tree, a thick oghul arrow lodged in his chest, red butterflies drifting up all around. The oghul riding in that boat with Nail and Val-Draekin had taken the black stone.
“Those on yonder vessel are of no matter to us now,” Icelyn said. “For the Dragon, our master, watches over the black stone now. Do not fall into despair, Sashenya, for all the star stones will make their way into the hands of our Immortal Lord at Fiery Absolution.”
“But the Aalavarrè Solas have arisen anew.” Sashenya turned to Icelyn. “We should not be so passive. While human, oghul, dwarf, and Vallè seek their ‘salvation’ underground, we Aalavarrè Solas have already spent a thousand years trapped there. Do you not remember the underworld was a vast and deep purgatory, oceans and rivers and cities unseen, the lifeless dead in need of an awakening, in need of blood sacrifice and the cauldrons of Hragna’Ar? I do not wish to return to such a state. The star stones are part of our keys to salvation, the keys to the marble quarry and the salvation of our lost and buried kin, the keys to the resurrection of our Immortal Lord. We should go after them.”
Icelyn was swift to answer. “We must live with patience but a while longer. The star stones will be gathered when the Dragon arises to answer the Call of the Burning Tree. It is written in crystal vision, starshine that used to be silver. We have heard the stars whisper as much in the deepness of our long sleep, in the infernal depths and cavernous haunts of our underworld. Do you not recall? Our souls have spent an eternity living in both dreams and chains, forever moving through a silent windstorm of invisible dark, shattered, broken, and lost. But no more. For one by one we have all awoken, clawing our way from the infinite blackness of the underworld by the power of Viper, woken again through pure scorch and blood harvest and sacrifice in the cauldrons of Hragna’Ar, woken again by the only true and everlasting life—Blood of the Dragon. So patience but a little longer, Sashenya. Patience before the fullness of the light.”
