M. Daniel McDowell

+

+

Copyright © 2023 by Merritt Daniel McDowell All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law, with the exception of brief excerpts for review purposes.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

First Revised Digital Edition: October 2023

Typeset in Alegreya HT

book logotype & map elements: The Mariam Story by RQF Type Foundry

other typographical map elements: Unlucky by RetroSupply

Typesetting, map, logotype, additional interior decorative

typographical elements by Jay Wolf

https://jayxwolf.carrd.co

*

To all my friends, here and in the Realm of Dream:

Thank you for sacking this particular castle with me.

—M.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1: The End

Chapter 2: The Beginning

Chapter 3: Catacombs

Chapter 4: Stonebrake

Chapter 5: Hesitation

Chapter 6: Drought’s End

Chapter 7: On Foot

Chapter 8: Sterling Moray

Chapter 9: High Street

Chapter 10: Independents

Chapter 11: Processional

Chapter 12: Aftermath

Chapter 13: Stardowne

Chapter 14: Etude

Chapter 15: Cascada

Chapter 16: Dissociation

Chapter 17: Zalandan

Chapter 18: Binding

Chapter 19: Sundering

Chapter 20: The World Unbound

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Chapter 1: The End

+

Vierrelyne awoke to the smell of fire in the crisp night air. Not the soft kind of fire that lit the hearth; this was something bigger, wilder, something wicked and unnatural, with a tarry note of grease that ran behind it, and a sharp undertone of burnt hair.

On peering through the single southward-facing window in her parapet cell, it was clear—a building blazed in the village beyond the gates of Castle Talorr. No: it was two, three, a dozen... Fabric, thatch, and beams all alight in the darkness, crackling with violence. It could only be deliberate. The explosions that accompanied this great and growing conflagration served to add more terror. The screams of townsfolk in panic could be heard even at this distance, and Vi cursed as she realized the source of this fire was advancing rapidly toward the siege gates of the castle itself.

Would anyone come to her aid if the fire spread up from Tenvale?

She shook off the mantle of fitful sleep as best she was able, laying aside her terrible recurring dream about a disfigured boy with the eye of a demon, its piercing green gaze fixed on her, across an endless river of darkness that churned swiftly between them. Pulling herself into motion, she put on her only shoes, a threadbare pair of thin-soled black slippers; one of the bitter hallmarks of her interminable interment.

From where she stood, she could help none of her people, and this weighed heaviest upon her heart. The words of the prophecy that had dragged behind her like an anchor now rang with force within her. That jeweled tower of her broken heart can only stand forth as righteous so long as the Flower of Hope remains, for that flower of hope should become crown of all ruination.

What dire nonsense.

If Talorr could fall… it would, and she’d known this since her youth, even as her paranoid father claimed he would prevent it by stuffing her into this fretful tower, hoping to forestall the inevitable. The walls of this castle were built on the shifting sands of fate, and Brabinghar, warlord and holder of Derebor, would be its last king.

Not because of this fool prophecy, but because he was at once cruel and dull, shaped by a long time caring for nothing but his own wants—and his many and varied wants had brought ever greater suffering, as her tutor often told her, in whispers between her other lessons. Vierrelyne knew enough of that cruelty herself, though she had seldom seen her father in the fifteen years of her imprisonment. One did not need to bear witness to such torments to be nonetheless culpable.

Years of unchecked tyranny had wrought much suffering, and now it would be visited in kind. Now, the collective power of the Merchant Principalities was pushing back.

Vengeance was coming. With hope, it would not take her first. In the Eye of Chaos, in the fall of the great empire, will be reborn the Crown of the World Unbound, the voice of Unspoken Ages anew.

And, as it had always been, the last princess would bear the blame for her father’s descent into ruin, all because some drunken sod with his own sectarian religion believed in the sacred truth of his dark imaginings. The strange and dark belief that all castles would one day fall to bloodshed because of one lousy girl. It was worse than ludicrous in retrospect. It had been their decision to bring her a teacher, someone who knew a world far outside these towers, and whose instruction had only honed her resentment at her seeming fate. She had learned only that this castle held nothing for her, despite her aching wish that it were not so.

In the firelight, the vague shapes of riders on horseback bore torches and siege equipment, bound for the walls of the castle below. No time. If there was to be any change, any alteration of the star-sworn testimony, it would be by her hand. If she found her mother’s crown and ran for Stonebrake now, there was still a chance she could set things back to rights and escape this miserable tower once and for all. Both better worlds she could live with, if only her luck held long enough. If only she was fortunate enough to flee at all, for that matter. The moment she’d anticipated had descended upon them.

Only by the oblation of the Shepherd in Shadow… She tried to remember the rest of the words. She didn’t believe in any of it, but it’d haunted her for so long. The Bringer of the Scourge, the Crown of the World Unbound… All of it strange, unhelpful in the face of the raging blaze.

Only by the oblation of the Shepherd in Shadow will the Bringer of the Scourge free the Crown of the World Unbound? It didn’t matter anymore, did it? All of this madness was precisely that: madness.

Shedding the rest of her night clothes and cursing the ever-encroaching darkness, Vierrelyne du Talorr readied herself for the battle that had finally reached her door. She donned her training clothes—a gambeson, and some smaller padded armor—then reached for the training sword Kharise had smuggled to her...

Kharise! Where was she? The clamor of dire panic and the clashing of blades in the yards below filled Vi with an acute terror as waves of riders breached the siege gates. She steadied her mind, as she had been taught by her curious mentor, silently mouthing the words that accompanied the meditation of the blade. I control only my response, I control only my breath, I control only my destiny.

She suspected the destiny bit was her tutor and sword-mistress’s way of critiquing the same prophecy that had brought her into the princess’s circle, teaching and training her in secret, between lessons in music and histories known only to the folk of the Unconquerable Plains. It was reassuring that the bardic woman from the distant steppes innately understood the preposterous nature of Vierrelyne’s circumstances and regarded it with the same skepticism.

Vi slipped the pocket bag from her day-dress into the only gown that fit over her thin selection of armaments, the night-dark velvet masking her sturdy curves. Her tatting shuttle and a spool of black silken thread; a handful of rare gems loosed from their settings by diligent, hidden picking; a signet ring with a crest she dared not allow anyone to see upon her finger, for it was a token of a shattered time; all of these disappeared into those confines.

The shrill whinnies of spooked horses and the harried cries of night guardsmen in the courtyards below sharpened her resolve.

Maybe they've forgotten me. She hoped.

The odor of burning accompanied the ozone of illicit mage-thunder from the ramparts; no way to tell which side had fired off such wicked spells. She threw herself at the locked door, anxious to be found before the unholy fire crept up the ivy trellises, equally anxious not to be apprehended trying to escape. Perhaps, with enough force, she could budge the stubborn bolts.

Again. She drove her weight against it, shouting for Kharise, for anyone who might hear, but it held fast despite her every effort.

Violet-blue flames erupted in the sky above her window, and a foul, alchemical scent flooded the room. She screamed for help, for mercy, her shoulder against the door frame as she bellowed herself hoarse, trying to be heard over the din of the suffering below.

Damn them all, the superstitious and the gullible and the complicit, every single one of them, the ones who believed her only place in this world was this singular cell. Overcome with a terrible shuddering sensation as the air grew thin, she collapsed, heaving dry, gasping for breath. As an overpowering drowsiness came over her, she thought she heard the faintest sound of her dearest mentor and friend, just outside the door, but she could not make out the words.

*

As the first wave of enemies crashed against the gates, The first thought on Kharise gen Valuure’s mind was of the princess Vierrelyne; the Rose in the Tower, the young woman whose whole world was tied into that damnable prophecy. With the castle under siege, the tower where His Majesty had imprisoned her was an undeniable target, taller than the rest of the castle, than even King Brabinghar’s spires.

The dense wooden beams that held the interior scaffolds ribboned with the first vestiges of fire as the siege on the castle gates gathered momentum. A spray of rocks arced above, catapulted over the outer walls. The shouts of soldiers in motion mingled with the din of horse hooves on cobble, the clatter of metal and stone.

More than once, in the shouts and cries she heard a sentiment that filled her with dread—find the princess, capture her, take her to Cascada… She gritted her teeth and redoubled her efforts to get to the tower before the hordes at the gates made it through.

This was not the first siege the plainswoman had ever borne witness to, but it was the first for which she held such specific responsibilities. Her calling was to aid the princess, in whatever capacity was required, but it seemed to her wary mind that the unspoken mission was to extract the young woman from her confines before anyone else noticed. Perhaps the poor creature could be freed of this misbegotten belief system at last.

She cut through a side courtyard near the tower and stopped short. An arc of glimmering alchemical fire ripped from the ground level toward the princess’s window, then a second, and a third—three arrows of magenta flame tinged with blue, aimed at the highest spire. None made their mark, she noticed; all clattered in sparks like the glint of a bright-carved amethyst before bursting outward into billowing clouds of vile smoke. In an instant, her attention was on the figure standing beneath it, shrouded in a grey cloak with a deep hood. Whoever it was tilted their hood toward her, then bolted around the tower toward the doorway, into the spiraling stairwell, Kharise hot on their heels.

Hey! she bellowed after them. Stop! I saw you fire those strange arrows!

The cloaked figure vaulted the tower steps ahead of her, two at a time, and she struggled to keep pace, on shorter legs than her adversary. She might have been faster on level ground, but her stride extended only so far in the vertical.

Get back here!

The figure turned, a rag hiding his face.

Kharise took the note, pulling her shawl over her nose, and it seemed to help. The air was thinner up here, somehow, and stank of acid from that rotten spell. She drew her dirk from her hip sheath and pursued him up the spiral staircase. He seemed rattled by her persistence as the two climbed the formidable tower. He was not immune to the miasma, either; as they ascended, his eager gait drew shorter until she caught him by the shoulder and pulled him down. He tried to wrench free, and the pair went tumbling over and down several stone steps.

The intruder groaned and clutched his arms to his chest. She panted, drawing to her feet, and took control of the situation. Where are you going? Who are you?

She yanked the fabric from his face and the cloaked man gasped, flinching away from her, his head tilted down and to the right. She held out her dirk, angled at his chin.

He was younger than she expected, for such threatening spellwork; young enough to be so foolish as to try something so bold. At this proximity she'd guess him to be in his late twenties, only the first fine lines of age engraved at the creases between his cheek and nose. Another thicker line only became visible when his upper lip twitched, a deep tissue scar that traveled up under his mop of dark hair, which settled over the right side of his face, his left eye a bold brown ringed in gold. His chin trembled in terror, and he held out his palms.

I-I'm a friend, he stammered, I’m f-from the... As-Astral Circle. We know the truth, ab-b-bout the princess. I was sent here by Tobin--

The Heresiarch? Kharise scowled. Tobinarde l'Ete? He's dead. Try again.

N-n-no. The man clenched his jaw and slumped forward. He went into hiding, after th-the tower collapsed, at Stardowne. He... still leads the Circle, told me where to go... He made the plan, I—

You fired this alchemical spell up here, didn’t you? What does it do? She held the cloth taut to her face with her free hand, her blade still menacing the cloaked stranger trembling on the stairs below.

Ssssleep, he said, unable to stifle a yawn as he sagged with alchemically induced exhaustion, closing his eyes, mumbling. Not long—just a few minutes—I just needed to sneak up, help her, find the prism…

He nodded off, leaning against the stone wall as if it were a pillow of goose down. Kharise broke away from him with a shake of her head, cursing every last idiot alchemist as she wound her wrap over her face a second time and then a third. Madmen one and all, they were, not a care in the world for a bystander.

She had to credit him once, though; he’d made quick work of the guards’ tenement, the floor below Vierrelyne. Kharise strolled in, past two lumbering, slumbering kingsmen, and walked out with the key she was ever less frequently permitted to use as the prophesied darkness drew nearer, and the princess’ superstitious father, the idiot-king himself, welcomed fewer intercessions on Vi's behalf.

Princess! Vierrelyne, I'm here! she called out, and nearly tripped over the poor creature as she stepped inside.

Kharise tutted over the young woman she had come to quite admire, in her long stay as her mentor in language, in music, and in swords. The red curly hair of legend was tucked into chained and beaded cauls of silver silks, links of maille, and bright glass beads, as her battle-maven mother had done when she was at war those many years before. Her dress, worn over what little armor she was permitted to keep in her tiny but well-appointed tower. Kharise suppressed her pity; it wasn’t useful here. She grabbed her charge by the shoulder and shook her without much hope, but Vi stirred back to life.

If the spell was this temporary, they did not have long at all.

What's happening? Vi groaned, hoarse, groggy, as she turned over on the stone floor. Is it all as we feared? I thought it might be—

Worse than that, I'm afraid, and your fool father has spread his own soldiers too thin. The siege walls of Talorr are falling. We haven't much time and we are surrounded by enemies. We must evacuate the castle, head for higher ground, maybe one of the outer cities where the merchant infantry have yet to intercede—

We can't allow their foot soldiers to take the northern wall... Not until... Vi faltered, and Kharise dug through the princess' wardrobe for something that might suffice to keep her clear of the lingering poison smoke. The spell dissipated, but now the tower window was taking on soot from billowing black clouds, and those would be far deadlier if they did not flee now.

Here, she said, holding out a long scarf. Vi sat herself upright. We shall have to hurry, if we want to search the catacombs, but... Kharise paused, searching for the right way to say, you can leave all this star-sent foolishness behind and just run, but she found none.

"He locked me in this tower for fifteen years to prevent this, Vi sighed, her deeper anger muffled as Kharise delicately tied the scarf over her face. And no amount of prevention could forestall what was to come. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t talk like this."

But it's true. Vierrelyne, We must go. They are here for you. Kharise patted her shoulder. Is there anything else you require from your long isolation? I daresay this is that last day foretold, so we won’t find ourselves here again.

I have Alaina's signet ring, and possibly some things to barter. Vi contemplated. I should have my papers.

The princess’s diary, wedged under the sideboards of her bed, was so small it fit inside her pocket beside her lace tools. How strange, to have so little of meaning and purpose to her name that it would all fit in a pocket-bag, but the princess had, after all, been prevented from having either for so long.

Now, Vi said, so quietly Kharise strained to be sure she understood the princess's intentions. To the northern wall and come what may. I have to find my mother’s circlet, the one my father refused me after she died, the one she said was to be mine.

Kharise hesitated. Are you sure you don’t—

It was her wish that I take it.

Y-you might want some help, the wizard in the cloak called out as he stumbled through the open door, arms laden with pillaged armor. It spilled from his hands to the floor in a crash. Kharise drew back, blade in hand again, but the young man stepped away, palms raised.

You came here from the Astral Circle, you said? She strode toward him, and he flinched backward as Vi perused the pile of metal pieces. Why are you helping us? Don’t they believe in that old foolish prophecy from that heretical bastard? Why now, after all this time?

He leaned on the door frame, seemingly woozy from his