Sunday Sample #3 - The Mark of Flight

Last week, I shared the opening of my contemporary fantasy, Hellhound. This week, I would like to share the prologue of "The Mark of Flight", book one of The Markmasters Trilogy.

They had known him once, that woman in the teetering headdress, that courtier smoothing his brocade doublet, and that young man in the stained smock. Once, Alukale would have inspired more than a measuring glance or fluttered fan; his face alone would have been enough introduction to any keep from these castle gates to the Centoreinian border. Now it was his name that was known, but not his face. A pity, but at least he didn’t have to cover it. The early summer sun bearing down on his shoulders made the prospect of donning a hood a matter to avoid at all costs, and none of the ceremony-goers in the packed courtyard were even looking.

Their attention was trained on the girl descending the stairs, her arms spread slightly for balance as four gray-clad handmaidens helped her step-after-step. She probably wouldn’t have needed the help if not for the ridiculous headdress that towered well over her head. Its spires glittered in the sun, concealing the hair that would be revealed to all the court in just a few moments. Alukale shook his head in pity—despite the smile on her heavily-powdered face, her magenta aura pulsed like the heart of a hummingbird. To this day, he still did not understand why a girl couldn’t be the first to see her own hair, and he had watched them stuff it into coifs and wraps and caps for five-hundred years.

He shaded his eyes with one hand, the other perched on his sword-heavy hip, and gazed up at the gray battlements, at the royal family’s red and white standard snapping from the bastions. Then the dreaded specter of memory rose, a sickly dream adorning the modern castle in the raiment of his time.

Alukale had left this very courtyard five-hundred years ago, sick with grief, with rage, and ready to tear apart the world itself with his hands, or with his Magic if he could, if only it would stop the war. If only it would bring back what he had lost. But a handful of lifetimes had passed, and he had accomplished neither. Now, the sight of the castle rekindled feelings he had never wanted to face again, scenes he had never wanted to relive. Despite the changes wrought by time and foolishness, it was too familiar.

In the place of steel-latticed oak doors stood a gate of slender pikes, glistening with a web of silver ivy. Such a confection wouldn’t even stop a breeze, let alone an invading army. The keep was no longer a bastion for the people if the enemy were to breach the city’s walls. A few decades of peace and the people of Rizellen thought the war was over.

Alukale snorted. He had felt this ignorant excitement once, and the people of Rizellen would soon discover how wrong they were. Peace had made his country soft, and they would suffer for that weakness. He resisted the urge to leap onto the stairs and call this country that had once been his back to arms and take command of the future once again.

But he could not. She had forbidden interference, and Alukale was discovering that it was the hardest thing she had ever asked of him, and she had asked many things. He had taught, protected, even killed for her; he had shown the ruthlessness she could not, and had been the strength she lacked. And now she wanted him to stand aside.

The crowd hushed, and the piercing keen of a bell silvered the air, hanging across the crowd like ice. The time had come.

The four handmaidens reached for the headdress, and the princess’s hands clenched in her skirts. She didn’t look fourteen, sprite-like as she was, but Alukale knew better than anyone about the discrepancy of age and appearance. It took all four gray-clad women to lift, arms straining, the confection of silver and gems from the girl’s head. A heavy rush of ebony tumbled down the girl’s thin shoulders, and Alukale felt a small flicker of pride tugging his lips as his brother’s descendant shook out a glorious fall of black hair, waist-length and lustrous.

She would be the first Princess of Rizellen to have black hair; her foreign father had given her his coloring, and that was no shame, for a princess needed to be unique.

A groan nearby drew his attention, and Alukale glanced at the girl who had made the noise—unremarkable face, dressed in drab clothing let out at the seams. Her short-cropped hair told him that this girl had not possessed a set of handmaidens to care for her tresses before she turned fourteen. She spotted him looking and flushed, and he hoped she felt some shame in having wished for the princess’s bad luck.

Alukale looked back to the dais, jaw clenched. Princess Arianna would have bad luck enough without having the noblewoman’s curse of bad hair as well. At least the Sisters had blessed her with that much.

“You, boy!” A Warsman in heavy chainmail shoved through the crowd towards Alukale, his blue tabard bright among the peasants’ dull ensembles. “No swords in the bailey!”

“I was just taking my leave,” Alukale said, slipping between the men and women like water. He turned his back to the ceremony, clenching his teeth against the thought that he could do something—right now—to change the course of the future, and he was walking away. But no, he was lucky Lenis had let him come at all, for he knew she had seen a future where he had not controlled himself.

There would be a day when he gave in to that temptation, but it was not today. Today, he had other matters to attend.

Sunday Sample - The Markmasters Trilogy

I can't remember the artist for this...

An excerpt from "The Mark of Flight", book one of The Markmasters Trilogy.

Tashda had betrayed her.

 It was like being lifted from a drug-induced gaiety and suddenly dropped back into consciousness. The ethereal brightness of the world faded into simple moonlight, life became less beautiful, and Arianna was suddenly, rudely aware of her mistake. Her terrible, irresponsible, thoughtless mistake. These were no queen’s hands, she thought, opening her fists and staring at them in horror. These were the hands of a fool.

Bay grabbed her shoulders, wrenching her away from the door. “Come, my lady. There is no time. Tashda will have noticed this spell break, and I’m not sure how much time I can give you. Shiro!”

Arianna looked up, remembering for the first time the black-haired young man who had come in with Bay. The Mage thrust her towards him, and she recoiled from his obvious filth. No, she couldn’t think like that. She was worse than him now. She was a war-starter, for her mistake would surely be the catalyst for a fresh wave of fighting.

“Shiro, take her and get out. Take the Grays.”

“What about you?” Arianna asked, head snapping over to look at him. “You don’t expect me to get home with just-”

“There’s no choice, princess!” Bay snapped, turning to the casement and shoving it open.  “Go now!” he yelled, swinging his arm toward the window. The young man flinched, as if bracing himself for Bay to hit him. Arianna, leaned her head out the window. There was a single story drop to the ground, but in the evening darkness, she could see nothing soft to fall on. The sound of footsteps in the big hallway made up her mind.

“Let’s go!” she said. “We’ll have to jump.”

“Shiro, now!” Bay said, grabbing Arianna’s arm. The young man stooped so she could fling her arm around his shoulders, and she heaved her legs over the sill. Arianna’s back scraped against the casement as the two men lowered her out, and she was glad for the years and years of daring herself to look straight down over the castle Rizell’s curtain wall. Her arms slid through their hands, and they caught her wrists with a jolt. Her feet dangled a meter above the ground, and they let go. 

She gave a truncated cry and crumpled under her own weight, but it took only a second for the fighting blood to kick in, and she scrambled out of the way. Her feet stung, but she tore off toward the stable ahead, wet grass lashing her ankles. A thump behind her signaled the young man’s landing. He passed her on his long legs, flung the stable doors wide, and darted inside, Arianna right behind him.

To her shock, the horses stood outfitted and ready. The young man—Shiro—laced his fingers and Arianna stepped into them and tossed herself across the saddle. She struggled with her skirts for a moment before she was able to get her legs situated properly.

He handed her the reins and stepped back, turning his head from side to side. Through his nest of pitch black hair, she couldn’t see his eyes.

“Hurry up, get on the other horse,” she said, words pierced with sharp gasps. Her throat and chest burned from the run.

“I d-don’t know how to ride,” he breathed. “You have to go now. They don’t know I’m w-with you and you’ll be faster w-without me!”

Arianna stared at him. She imagined herself tearing through the wilderness, unable to discern direction, with a whole company of Markmasters in pursuit.

“Nonsense,” she hissed. “I can’t do this myself,” she loathed her next sentence, though it rang truly inside her own ears as she spoke. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Though he grimaced and rubbed the back of his neck with one big, filthy hand, he nodded.

She nudged Star toward him. “You’ll have to ride behind me.”

The young man’s posture stiffened, but Arianna wasn’t about to give him a second to protest. They had wasted enough time as it was. They’d have to leave her mother’s horse and hope that either that Bay man made it out alive, or that they could outwit or outride a single Markmaster.

“Come, we haven’t got time to argue!” Her voice trembled, but he jumped at the order as if she had shouted it, vaulting nimbly up behind the saddle. Arianna was, for once, glad of her slight weight, for though the young man was little more than skin and sinew, he was quite tall. She wondered what region he was from, to have such long bones and such strange coloring. Star didn’t like the extra weight, and let Arianna know with laid back ears and a rueful glare, but Arianna spat out a few commands in Danaian and they erupted from the stable.

It became obvious almost immediately that Shiro’s claims about his equestrian abilities were not the product of modesty. Arianna’s legs strained as she pressed her feet hard into the stirrups, struggling to keep balance for two as Shiro slung about uncontrollably behind her. Star—confused by the accidental leg signals—snorted and jerked at the reins.

Finally, Arianna managed to get the mare following the reins alone, and wheeled her around toward the road. They hurtled down the little path, turned, and burst into the open darkness of the road.

Ahead, she saw the festival pole, silhouetted against the boiling, cloudy sky, and a pair of figures running straight towards them, blond heads bright. She gasped, gaze shifting, and saw their smooth auras swelling with energy, spells sparkling at the ends of their outstretched hands. She pulled Star’s reins hard, and Shiro fetched up against her back, chin cracking against the back of her head. She grunted, but ignored the pain, wheeling the mare and digging in her heels. They catapulted up the faded road towards the ruined castle in a wild four-beat sprint. Shiro’s arms crushed her ribs, and if she had been inclined to breathe at all, it wouldn’t have been possible.

They pounded up towards the ruins, and a plume of flame snapped out on their left, flaring hot. Arianna screamed, and Star bolted right, heading straight for the steep edge of the motte. Ropes of blue, translucent Magic ribboned out at the edge of her vision, chasing them.

They couldn’t stop—they would have to go over the edge of the motte.

“Hold on!” she screamed, and drove Star with her heels over the edge. Blue Magic arched over their heads.

Everything slammed forward, and the pommel dug into Arianna’s gut. Shiro was heavy against her back, threatening to push her over Star’s low-bent neck as they slid down the steep hillside. The skirt of the motte flared below them, muddy, rocky, without purchase. Star wasn’t running, she was skidding down. Just when Arianna’s hands slipped on the mare’s withers and she pitched forward, Shiro’s arm tightened about her waist and he reversed direction, pulling her back. He had a bit more stability behind the saddle, and he had somehow managed to get his feet in the stirrups with hers.

            They lurched, Star leapt the last few lengths of the motte, and Arianna barely righted herself before the mare crashed into the ocean of tall, golden wheat.

            “The road!” she yelled, and Shiro pointed, but his feet jerked from the stirrups and he quickly had his wiry arms around her waist again, head bent down into her shoulder. They tore a wide path through the field, galloping for the hulking, broken structures concealing the road.

            Another tail of flame arced over them and splattered like burning grease in the wheat ahead. Star reared, and this time Arianna’s fingers tangled in the horse’s mane. Shiro somehow managed to stay on, and as soon as the mare’s hooves touched down, she took off, skirting the spreading flame and churning a path through the pale wheat.

            There was a roar of thunder from above, and a great rush of wind blasted their backs, bringing a spatter of sparks from the quick spreading flame. Star moved in great leaps, and Arianna realized with a sick trill of fear that the flame was being pushed up around them by Magic. Desperate, she dug at Star, leaning forward, though she knew the mare could go no faster.

Then the sky opened up. First a few drops, then a torrent pelted down over them like shattering glass, battling with the flame. They leapt between buildings and Star pivoted, slinging her riders sideways as she found the road, and hurtled into the tunnel of trees. In the sheet of sudden rain, the gray horse and riders became invisible.