The Seas of the Briar 1/?

 The Dirae

Half the world away in a land of forests...

This was war.

At least it would be within the sense that, if the old buck didn't watch his antlers the next time he paced her front room—and if he happened to damage a very old, very important chandelier—Dirae Taormina was going to find herself on the bad end of a trial for bludgeoning the fool. Still, judging by the amount of other refuse that had become wrapped about—or trapped within—the prongs and tines of the yet-to-shed cranial adornments, surely it would not have been the first time.

“The stones do not lie,” she told him in spite of the fear for her belongings. And, yes, the front room of her home was filled with them. The Sunset Fawn was known for garnering the attention of all sorts of peoples across the world, and here sat their attentions in material form. She liked to display them for their prominence—gifts from Kings went near the front, as well as those from so-and-so's that no one had heard of, save her, but had interesting names with which she could weave a story or two. One of these obscurities was a lovely, pale jade urn from some village-level mayor called Tymbeddal. Despite the fact that she, herself, could no longer remember the true tale of its origin, she spared the thing a wince when the buck's pacing jarred the shelf it sat upon.

“That is their nature,” she continued, nonetheless. “The Fiorlien are not unlike two fawns entangled in utero. There is the choice to take them... Or there is the one to save the mother.” Sighing quite pointedly, Taormina took to her hooves—abandoning her seat for the first time since he had entered. “You did ask,” she said, as careful fingers set about untangling the length of white mane that draped over one thin shoulder.

She was well used to the look he gave her then. It was desperation in its simplest form—a look that belonged to Men, not Cervidaen—“What about the staff?” he managed. “Can you ask the staff?”

“The Staff of Dawn has no words.”

Honestly, what did these people take her for? Had she not spent the majority of her life dwelling beneath the same branches as they? Had the old mother does—which, she knew he had a few in his family—not watched her run about the paths with the rest of the children? In the end, of course, she knew it was the title. Titles were bad omens. If you were named King, there were the kingslayers and usurpers to worry over. If you were the last of anything, friends and family forgot that you had once been normal. No one ever remembered that you had been a child, cub or fawn who had stumbled about and learned to walk and talk just as they once had. Unfortunately for her, where her future had once held the promise of husbands and wives and a few offspring just like the rest of them, the Lady Dirae now had titles to take the place of all that.

So, to answer herself, they took her for what she was—which she hadn't entirely figured out herself, just yet, but in the meantime, she was the one who was supposed to fix things for them—answer their questions—and in the final act, bring them to an endless sleep.

“I suppose I must take it then,” he said in a small voice, stepping forward to bow his head and allow her to smear a handful of crushed berries into his forelock.

He supposed? “Yes. That would be for the best,” was managed without a break in demeanor. “You should take a candle to the northern stream and light it for Our Lady. Say the twenty-second hymn.” She led him toward the door as she spoke and held the first veil of beads to the side for him to pass. “When you return home, clean your entryway with lavendar.” And be grateful for such a short list.

When—and only when—he was out of sight would she exit the front room herself. Though not much more than head and long neck peeked out and angled up toward her door-guard. “Let no one else enter,” she said—knowing that he heard her despite his lack of acknowledgment. “I've a bad case of the beckonings.” It was work enough to get herself to a place to lie down before it got too strong. The last thing she needed was having to worry about anyone seeing it happen.

The lack of anyone being there to see, however, was probably why she only made it over the threshold before hitting the floor. Everything in that dim room was suddenly white before a familiar voice—or, rather, combination of voices speaking in unison—filled her ears and reverberated to her bones.

Have I got a job for you.

Tales of Dead Kings 2/?

Sir Evarin Omur

 

Of all the armored men of the world—from the lowliest fighters to the highest Emperor across stars and seas—platinum clad knights were a sight to behold. The Aavartti were no exception, no matter how many times one happened upon them. Every detail of the five mens' suits were delicate to the eye—carefully wrought, shimmering feathers, inlaid jeweled eyes, forged Delan glass visors and fine silk cloaks—but crafted in such a way that not one was even marred by something as simple as a scratch. In failing day light, Evarin remembered likening them to fiery birds. Gigantic, sweeping phoenixes gliding down the hillside on horseback.

“Anders,” he gave the lead a curt nod. “Bear, Llewyn.” The other two he wasn't sure of, so they in turn received a brief tip of his head. “The royal guard as escorts? I do believe I've seen it all.” Anders, he was certain, was stone-faced behind his helm. Not even in youth could he remember the head of the sworn men daring so much as a grin—not even to his father. Bear, however, was a case all his own—one-eighth Ursarian on his mother's side, no one was actually sure of his name. 'Bear' simply happened to fit the oversized, over hairy, warhorse seated knight. He was well known for the rough guffaw that escaped him, though. It went hand in hand with a particular rowdiness that had gotten him a reputation with the towns' women.

Llewyn was silent. Always silent.

“If-” Anders waited for Bear's laugh to die down. Ev could feel the dryness of that raised brow sapping the very humidity from the air. “-you don't mind- we have business. Her Ladyship has sent us to retrieve yourself and your entourage post-haste. That is all.”

Rhys, in the meantime, could be seen rounding up behind the Aavartti men. “Ladyship?” had a few of the horses whinnying out of surprise—they couldn't half turn their heads for the blinders, let alone hear. “Seems you aren't in half the shit I suspected, Sire.” Grin. “Llewyn, how's your mum?”

Thank the gods there were no weapons to be so easily drawn. He was sure even he would regret seeing which shade of red made young Haele so brash with everyone—if for nothing more than the simple fear that it would match his own. “Adelai has already arrived?” How long had she had word? Tenate and the isles of the Masters were half a world away...

Nothing flew that fast.

“She awaits your own in the bay-side courtyard,”came from where Anders had directed his steed between Haele's and Llewyn's. “She claims it to be of the utmost urgency that you speak with her first.”

And, at that, his mind began to work. It sought the seas for Tenate—that white granite island rising from cerulean waters. It searched the ruins, the four ancient Gods' Gates, the priestesses and priests, the farmland, the jungles. Everything. But even if his mind could truly seek out a presence not twenty feet from him, seeking the same across oceans was improbable, unlikely and just plain idiocy. If anything had become of his father, it would not be Adelai who delivered the information anyway.

That was all he could tell himself.

With a snap at Rhys and a toe to his mount, “Lead the way,” was all he could manage even with self-reassurance in full swing. It was not fear for himself or loved ones—had he had any—but power undivided would surely end them all... Two dead kings and one heir-less queen with an empire at her feet. His mind's eye razed the flatlands to flames. It would be war.

Tales of Dead Kings 1/?

Sir Evarin Omur

Days and weeks and months away from home had left a sour taste in his mouth and an even worse smell infused into the leather of his armor. There was something about going back, though. Somewhere in his mind was that child-like sense of returning. Other than the circumstances at hand, it wasn't an awful lot unlike riding back from Lord Perquin's stronghold a hundred summers ago. Back then, he had been Evarin the prince or—more importantly—the boy. Youth was so very, very easy. But, no more. Now he was Evarin the knight—one status exchanged for another, and youth traded for this.

“You should smile more, Sire,” came from his horse's left flank. The lift of a chin and a turn in the saddle would reveal the wide, emphatic grin of an approaching companion. Or, rather, escort, “We've been two days in from the coast and I've yet to see more than dour facades.” Rhys Haele was a good boy, gods save him. He could track and swing a club with the best of them, but being handsome of face and easy with his leisures had made him more than a bit full of himself. “I'm aware that the occasion demands it, but we're still on the grass.” Rhys shifted in his saddle and turned brown eyes to the horizon, “Save your frowns for the ivory streets of the Lady beyond.”

He took it back. That boy was a flea on the flank. Evarin would, however—with a huff—tilt his head enough to acknowledge the youth who'd been sent to fill an empty spot in that entourage and accompany him and his men to the capitol. “I've no reason to smile.” Why would he?

The boy straightened. “We've all heard what's happening, if that's what you're fussing over.”

No response was necessary. He knew that they weren't idiots. Every man from here to the Oldlands knew his tale. Bards sang of it, ladies simpered and spoke of thing like woe at their lost chance of being queen. And Evarin kept riding. He kept his head on his shoulders and his sword sharp.

Above all else, he kept his vows.

“Keosin was my friend,” he said, finally, after they had rode nearly a half mile more. “He was the father of my niece and your king. You wear your black and wipe that grin off your face like the rest of us, Sir Haele.” His voice was quiet, though. Not nearly the force it could have been. He knew it didn't have to be. All it took was for Evarin to catch his reflection and see what they all saw—king's blood; fiery-haired, tan-skinned, prominent, squandered king's blood—dark eyes would return to the youth's, “Respect is not an option.”

As things were, Rhys was not required to take notice of things such as appearance, lineage or—gods forbid—name. The title of “sir” shoved into it all, clumsy footed yet omnipotent, just the way a young prince had once demanded it. Back then, there had been no Rhys Haeles to contend with, though. There had been Sir Amarids and Sir Raynors—good, decent knights; men one could trust with their life; men one didn't mind being of the same standing with—not boys who took vows for the sake of tournament glory. “Our days are numbered, Sire. Do you not see?” He lifted a silver encased hand and pointed down the road. “There-”

Evarin had to squint and lower his visor a bit to catch sight of those glimmering shapes, but once he did, he didn't have to think twice about what or who they were.

Rhys smiled. “Without the king, your dear sister will be slightly more unbearable, I'm sure.” Clucking his tongue, he urged that tidy gray mare toward the front of the group. “Cheer up, Ev,” he called over an armored shoulder. “You'd hate to disappoint your queen by wearing that sour face when she has you piked!”

The Prologue

A canary sang in the center of the arc.

Sweet songs rang of nothing but truth, yet the men surrounding did little more than ignore her. After all, what was the insignificant song of a tiny yellow bird to the noble and wise? It was chatter to some—a background sound that they had grown accustomed to over the months. Others found it more... irksome. None smiled as the melody rose—a shame to the canary, who deserved much more than their grumbling. Smoke would be huffed past tobacco stained, but otherwise white beards—tendony, age spotted fists would slam against table tops.

All was in vain, however, because what was that songbird to do with her day if not sing her spite?

“Light it,” was the command that came on a voice whispery with age and disuse.

“Light it.”

The men turned to look the direction of their master—the noblest and wisest, surely...

...Doubtfully.

One would pipe up. A younger, more foolish member, of course. One who dared to allow such a thing as pepper to mar what should have been an entirely salt white beard. “Light it? Are you certain?” he stood from his workstation to whisk across the room. “No one has given us the command. His lordship is a fortnight's ride from the-”

“Light it,” said the first, with much more certainty.

If anyone had dared to ask the canary her opinion, perhaps the world would not have ended that day. Perhaps those wise men in that grand, circular room with all their age and all their power would have waited... Because on the horizon, riders did ride. Mounts foaming and bloodied from that all out race, they did indeed ride. They rode and rode and whipped their horses raw, sealed letters clasped in armor encased fingers.

Letters that should have saved the world.

“Light it, you thrice damned imbeciles!” But if you wanted something done, it was best to do it yourself. Turquoise robes furled as he strode to the canary—to the arc. She sang as billowy sleeves were rolled to the elbows of arms that had once been strong. Her tune would only falter once as the sparks jumped from hair to hair on those boney limbs, singes left in their wake.

This man could not possibly distract her, though. She had a job to do. The arc sparkled a vibrant yellow as its orb bobbed in response—floating happily to the tune of her music.

Someone shouted a plaintive “No-” but they were most likely too late.

An enchanted little bird had kept that orb happy. A happy orb meant a controllable arc meant stability in all their lives. Now that canary smoked and sizzled on the tiles.

The orb settled on a shivering black.

In silence and darkness the old mages worked, the riders continued to ride and a young king held his breath...

And there, the world stopped.

…

Only to be jump-started by that salt and pepper magician.

“Get me a box,” was said quietly. “Fetch a box,” came a bit louder. A glance over a shoulder would provide him with the reason for no “yessirs” or sounds of rushing foot-falls. He was the only one left—alive that was. The floor was a veritable sea of stinking corpses in vibrant mage robes. What it lacked, however, was the flame broiled canary. And now that he thought about it, the quiet was distinctly song-filled.

A small voice rose to grab at his attention. “What will you give?” it asked.

“Anything. Everything.”

“So be it.”