Prologue

“Cursed book,” I mutter through gritted teeth.

Lost in my thoughts, I have carelessly allowed my quill to wander across the page. A large blot of ink wanders down the tip and blossoms on the parchment, engulfing a wonderfully poignant sentence in the process.

The problem with writing, I think as I hastily attempt to mop the stain, ruining the entire page in the process, is thinking of something clever to stick in the middle.

Irritated, I crumple the ink stained page and toss it into the fire. Engrossed in the process of transcribing my thoughts once more, I almost miss a flitting shadow as it darts across the wall.

“It seems I have visitors tonight.”

For a moment, the pitter-patter of feet ceases, but I am not fooled. I sigh and slide the tome across the table before removing my spectacles to rub my eyes.

“My old ears aren’t what they used to be, but I am not yet as deaf as that,” I say as I set my quill aside and screw the stopper on the inkwell. “A library is no place for child’s play.”

Shyly, the twins creep from behind a large column and into the firelight. In the vast expanse of the great library, they appear even smaller as the great shadows of marble busts and columns surround them. I put on a look of false displeasure, but motion to them nonetheless. Without further hesitation they run forward, seating themselves cross-legged on the rug between my chair and the fireplace.

I stifle a yawn. “Goodness, is it not past your bedtime?”

The girl and boy shake their heads, the girl’s straight blonde hair and the boy’s raven locks whipping with the emphasis of the motion.

“We’re not children anymore!” The girl says indignantly.

“Hmm?” I glance up again and see the pair of adolescents before me. My, time does not stop outside of the archives.

“What are you writing?” the boy asks, looking curiously at the manuscript open in my lap. The page’s ink has dried from the warmth of the fire and I shut the book quickly.

“Never you mind, young master,” I say, sharper than I intend. “It is not yet finished.”

“Oh, tell us please!” The girl begs.

I pick up my pipe and make a long show of lighting it, testing the bounds of adolescent patience as I do so. To their credit, they wait patiently, with only minor fidgets alluding to their eagerness. After taking a few puffs, I settle back into my seat.

“Perhaps, although I must warn you the tale will be long in the telling,” I say. “We will not finish in a night, or in a week’s worth of nights. But perhaps when we are done I will have taught you something, not only about the past but about the hearts of men as well.”

“It sounds educational to me…” the boy says doubtfully.

I chuckle at this. “Indeed it is. But there are great battles and wars, love and betrayals, journeys, quests, victory and defeat, pain and hope, too. The Teutevar Saga is perhaps one of the most intriguing cycles ever to occur in the history of Peldrin. As such, it was my duty to take up quill and parchment and immortalize the epic into the pages of history.”

“But what’s it about?” the girl asked.

“I’m getting to that!” I say. “It is the story of lands and peoples reborn in the ashes of war and cataclysm. More importantly, it is the story of a man who became more than a man, and another who turned into something else entirely,” I say. “Remember this, if nothing else: None can ever rise so high that they cannot fall. Yet those who have fallen may stand again.”

As I begin, the years roll back and I can see it all in my mind’s eye: the battles and the marches, old friends who have long since moved on and those of us still stubbornly fighting the ages.

“I was there from the beginning. I rode at the heads of mighty armies and ragged bands. I sat in council with kings and farmers and soldiers alike. I was cold, hungry, and scared as any man has a right to be. Time may continue but until I lay in the cold embrace of death, still the memories will live on.”

Part I — The Exiles

I know how men in exile feed on dreams — Aeschylus

Chapter 1

A tall, proud, man knelt before another on blackened soil. The standing man was garbed in white armor, his right hand held a naked sword, his body illuminated by moonlight to reflect a sickly pale hue. His eyes were blood-shot and fevered, haunted and menacing. When he spoke to the kneeling man his voice was hoarse, indicating his throat had been severely injured in the past. “Mathyew, old friend, how is it that we have found ourselves on opposite sides of this war? We are both of the same heart, men seeking the same ideals. Once we were comrades, brothers in all but blood. Yet, even now, you choose to oppose me. Look around, everything from the Eastern Ocean to Athel is burning. Isaac and all others who defied me are dead, as will you be if you do not submit. The war is over Mathyew, and I the victor. Your people’s lives are in my hands now. This does not have to be an end to the Athelings but rather a grand rebirth. Join with me and together we can right the wrongs done by the Council and create a new government with us at its head. We can restore peace and freedom to this land. What say you Mathyew, my brother?” Kneeling, Mathyew raised his head, eyes shining, to meet the gaze of the man above him. “Tell me, Arund, what has happened to the honorable man I once knew? That man held no notions of power and riches. The man you were would loathe the monster you have become. Now you are nothing more than a traitor and a murderer. I hope that your day of reckoning will hasten to bring you to justice for the evils you have committed. May your black heart rot and your strength abandon you. I choose death!” With a howl of rage, Arund raised his sword and beheaded the kneeling man in one mighty blow. Retching and gasping for air he released an unintelligible shriek to his surrounding hordes, the corpse beneath him, and the heavens above. Lightning smote the snow-filled sky and thunder drowned the cursed man’s voice. Unearthly wailing, like a wounded beast swept through the vale, riding on the back of the howling wind.

Thick, dense rain clouds splayed over the bitter, early autumn air surrounding the Gimbador Mountains. The crisp smell of rain mixed with the aromas of pines and the dark soil of loamy deer trails. The newly turned leaves on the Oak and Quaking Aspens were aged and brittle and their hasty neighbors coated the forest floor like a multi-colored rug. Furry animals stored winter caches in their dens and giant flocks of fowls flew south in formation.

Tucked deep in a sheltered side-canyon, two cottages dotted a clearing in the pines. They were made of pale, gray stone with thatched roofs, accompanied by a smoke and store house. A small, albeit neat, garden and orchard was nestled between the huts and the canyon side. In the distant pass, the hidden gorge sheltered an ancient secret. Now it served as sanctuary for three exiles, the last remnant of Mathyew Teutevar’s people.

A stone’s throw to the south of the villa, a small waterfall rolled off the cliff face and fed a mirrored pond dotted with rainbow trout. Near the rolling mist, two figures sparred intensely with blunted steels, the skittering of metal and shouts of instruction echoed over the cascading water.

“Again Ravyn!” commanded a female voice as her lithe form advanced in a complicated pattern of blurring stabs and cuts. The two blades she wielded with precision snaked out, testing for the smallest breach in the defender’s parries.

Her opponent slowly gave ground and although his cream colored robes darkened with perspiration he showed no notion of tiring as they traded blows. Patiently the woman waited for an opening, mind racing with the anticipation of the winning blow. As her opponent brought both of his blades overhead across her long steel she parried the attack skillfully and lunged with the shorter of the two swords. For a brief instant her balance was lost as her opponent neatly sidestepped the lunge, lightly tapping his weapon across the middle of her back.

“That’s the match Regg,” he said proudly, wiping the sweat from his brow. “I thought you knew better than to fall for that one.”

“I’m getting too old to spar with you Ravyn,” Reginleif replied, dropping her steel and regrouping her graying russet hair.

Ravyn Teutevar’s tall, sinewy form shook with laughter at his mentor’s remark, “Come now Regg, I don’t beat you every match after all. Plus, you’re the only practice I’ve got. It’s not as if mother will practice with me.”

“Lady Guinevere or I would have been more than a match for you back in our prime,” Reginleif said sternly, brow wrinkling.

Although she would never admit it, Reginleif was proud and even the smallest part jealous of Ravyn’s natural ability as a swordsmen. It was only her experience that allowed her a rare victory these days. This was true in almost every area she had instructed the boy, from a wide variety of weapons — double for archery — to hunting and tracking as well. Besides his physical ability, he was an exceptional scholar as well, although Ravyn often complained of the usefulness of such studies.

“Breakfast you two!” Another woman’s voice called from the nearest hut.

“Finally,” Ravyn sighed, the relief evident in his voice. Reginleif had added an extra hour of training into their usual routine this particular morning and Ravyn was grateful for the reprieve. Secretly, his teacher was as well.

I’m far from an old crone, but I’ve sure started feeling my age these last few years, she thought wistfully as they gathered the blunted sparring blades and walked to the cottage. Now that the labor intensive match was over, they both shivered slightly in the virgin autumn air.

Opening the door, Ravyn found his mother already seated at the table. Her long ginger hair was pulled back, revealing a beautiful face slightly worn from the hardships of past years. She was tall and lean and moved with a regal grace that befitted her nobility. This was Guinevere, Mathyew Teutevar’s widow, the exiled Lady of Athel, and Ravyn’s mother. Her and Reginleif were talking earnestly over the table, in hurried tones, but stopped abruptly when Ravyn entered. They began going about their separate tasks casually. Meanwhile Ravyn heartily attacked his breakfast.

Guinevere busied herself kneading a pile of dough at the other end of the table, all the while taking turns with Reginleif chastising Ravyn for his lack of table manners: “Ravyn, chew your food before you swallow, and don’t take such big bites! Honestly, living in the mountains doesn’t give you the free reign to eat like a savage. I’ve plenty of work planned for you today — Ravyn wipe your face it’s covered in honey — you’ll need to go hunting and gathering herbs, my stores are low for the winter.”

Ravyn’s assault on his porridge ended abruptly. “Hunting? I thought I would be able to go with Regg and get supplies in Laredon?”

There was a heavy pause while Guinevere proceeded to work the dough. “Regg and I changed our minds. She’ll only need a few things in town and we’re behind curing meat for the winter.”

“Nothing has changed with our winter stores since you both agreed I could go with Regg when she came back from town the last time,” Ravyn said accusingly. “Even so, there is no reason I couldn’t go into town while Regg hunts. I’m not a child.”

“Then quit acting like one,” Guinevere snapped back. “My decision is final.”

Ravyn’s scowl faded and he sighed heavily before returning to his porridge. From across the table, Regg’s heart went out to the boy. Life in the mountains was hard, even harder for a spirited young man like Ravyn. Against her better judgment, Regg decided to tell him the truth.

“I was followed the last time I went into Laredon, Ravyn,” the handmaiden said. “It was one of the trappers. I believe they think we are stealing from their lines, or we’re hiding something. The last thing we need are those scum knowing where we live, or discovering who we are.”

Ravyn’s anger returned twofold and he slammed a fist on the table. Both Reginleif and his mother looked at him sharply, but the boy was not deterred.

“Why does it matter if they know where we live? I’ve spoken with some of them before. Most of them are decent men.”

“I will not have this argument with you again Ravyn,” Guinevere said, her voice raised. “You know well enough that our identities cannot be discovered.”

Ravyn rolled his eyes and threw his hands in the air. As he stood, his chair fell to the floor. “No one cares mother. We aren’t royalty anymore. We’re paupers, little more than beggars who live on dirt floors and sleep in animal hides.”

Guinevere crossed the room in a flash and struck her son heavily with an open hand. Ravyn took the slap unmoving with his jaw set and eyes focused on his mother. Neither spoke. Guinevere’s chest rose and fell as if she had run for miles. She turned and leaned heavily against the table and Reginleif saw that the lady’s hands were shaking.

“I’ll go hunting mother,” Ravyn said in a flat voice and turned to leave.

He walked slowly to the doorway and paused to run a hand along the rough frame of the cabin.

“Long live the House of Teutevar.”