NOVEL NEXT Chapter One: Golden Grasses.
There is a painting that hangs in the hall of gods. Within is held the first woman, captured and punished for an eternity over a crime nobody remembers. Her bleeding golden eyes look out in frozen anguish. A masterful stroke holds the agony in her tears, and the death in the roses they water. She holds in her hands a bundle of cloth, though only one remembers why she clings to it so tightly. Godens and Goddesses pass by the frame all the time and pay as much mind to it as they would a single leaf on a tree or a blade of golden grass in the worlds of wheat below them. Such wasn’t always the case. When the world was young, and the gods were still curious, they would come upon it and admire her broken beauty. The wise gods would declare her the first human, the primordial creation of the absolute trinity. The gods of war saw otherwise. They claimed her the first murderer, the harbinger of ends. They believe it was she who created death, and only she who would be denied it for eternity. The young and revelrous gods saw her as a lech. They knew her to be the first whore and her portrait to be naught but a reminder of the consequences of sacrilegious hedonism.
There was a question asked once, by the Golden goddess. She asked of her father, “Who is she that has been hanged in our conclave all these long eternities?” And the forgotten goden answered her. The frame was no longer black steel, but stars and shadow.
In a mouthless voice and with noiseless words nobody but his own daughter could ever comprehend, he said; “She was my blood. My sister. She was the first mortal, and the first mother.” Now, the Golden goddess understood in an instant who she gazed upon.
“Why was she placed in the painting?” She asked of the shadows and stars. The winds rushed and she saw, upon the horizon, the old world of godens and goddesses. She saw the death of their world and the ascension of her kind, but she also saw a beauty with hair of crystal ice as she alone fled to the stars.
“She never became as us, as such she was fated to die alone atop the baren rock we called a world.” The stars became tears on godly cheeks while the galaxy a lifetime away became his false smile. “The first gods joined our power and gave unto her, a child.”
“But I was the first child.” She of Gold insisted.
“You were the first to draw breath. He was the first born.”
“How could a child of the gods not be carried to term?” She demanded. The painting came clearer to her and the bundle bled before her very eyes.
“We were arrogant and almost as powerful as we believed ourselves. When we saw her; when I saw her alone on that world, I assumed her solitude to be curable. She sought no cure, no child, and yet when her womb quickened, she suffered the responsibility. She bore the pains alone, while we crafted the skies above her. She slept on beds of rock and ate the sparse fruits left upon the scarred world. Then the day came, and the child did not, and she was so much more alone than she had ever been before.”
The agony of memory is a terrible thing for an ancient goden. The sapphire sun set in the middle of the day. The moon tore itself in twain and the mountains wept his tears. The rains poured in impossible colours and sparked out with glassy shards of lightning. The clouds hailed embers of emerald and the winds rushed as ruby torrents.
Then all became still, and he was gathered.
“What did she do?” The perfect daughter asked.
“She swore to end everything the gods had ever touched. She swore to destroy my bloodline. She swore to destroy all worlds that we create, she swore to grow even more powerful than I, that she might overthrow me.”
“And so, you froze her?”
“And so, I fought her,” he admitted. His shame brought stillness to the waves, and silence to all the flames of the sun. “And so, she destroyed the world. She made good on her promise, and we were forced to start again.”
“You made this world?” She guessed.
“Your mother made Marash. I swore to have no hand in your world, that my sister might forget it,” he corrected.
“But...” The goddess urged.
“But then we made you, and you made all of them; where I failed to make one.” The sun flared out and wrapped its arm around her shoulders for a warm embrace. “But by this action, her vow was renewed.”
“She made an attempt at Marash? But she was mortal, surely she would have aged?” Almost a panic had the mother of Marash. Had her father truly hidden such a foe from her?
“She would have aged and died an eternity ago,” he agreed. “Had she not been placed in that painting.”
“Then destroy the painting!” She demanded, the storm of thunder speaking her words in place of her lips.
“The painting cannot be destroyed, nor should you be so quick to violence. My sister will be freed by the dragon when the time is right. There is plan in place, daughter.”
“Then what is the plan?” She snapped.
“Steel will glance, the Champion will reign, the traitor will fall, and the eternals will explain.” The words shook the halls and the painting cracked along her lips. The agony turned in an instant to a sadistic grin. She bore it as blatantly as her bloody tears. In her eyes, the Golden goddess could see the final words spoken by this ancient mortal.
The silent smile said, “I’ve burnt whole worlds for hurting me, why is it you feel so safe?”
Then the goddess awoke from her dreams, and forgot her father and his tales yet again; as she did every morning. As everybody did every morning. Such was his grand blessing, the right to forget; the right to dream.
The sapphire sun set over golden grasses. The snowcapped mountains hid the horizon from sparkling little eyes. The day’s final heat warmed her back as she strolled through the nameless forest. Rain carried on the wind, but not a drop had fallen. The sun glinted off the shimmering reeds as she moved along her way. A clearing came up and she finally saw the sky. Perfect red melted into the perfect blue as she followed away from the sunset.
“Sister?” She called out with a drop of worry. It had been a moment too long of silence. A black leaf landed at her shoulder as she walked along. Only the evergreens kept their coats this deep into autumn, yet she stood surrounded by golden spruces and jet-black oaks. A flurry of purple leaves carried overhead on a quick rush of wind. It was an oddity of the season, but surely not worthy of worry. “Ash!” She called out again beyond the treeline, though the wind in the trees was the only response returned.
A songbird made its call from within the sheltered black tree, though a sparrow swept down and saw it off. She looked to the little sparrow, and it seemed to look back at her for a moment too long. It chirped lightly before taking flight towards a small pond that she hadn’t noticed. It was a shallow pool, but quite wide and brimmed with colourful stones. Red reeds lined its surface, and she could even see a couple of small fish within its bounds.
Her shadow grew long as the mountains swallowed the newly set sun. The darkness took the forest in an instant, and the cold of winter’s first reach scratched along her spine. A glint in the water caught her eye as she shivered in her dress. It was blue and purple; then red and gold; then green and white. It entranced her. It was beautiful as it shimmered an inch beneath the water. She didn’t give a thought to the cold as she took the first wading step into the pond. She got closer to the shimmer, and it seemed to do the same. It grew from a spec to a little ball of light, then it grew larger still. Then it was no longer red, nor was it blue or green; black or white. It was some impossible flavour of light. Some fevered dream of a madman. A colour that couldn’t be, yet so clearly was. The glint wasn’t beneath the water anymore, but above it – above her.
She gawked as this impossible delight sparkled and danced amongst the slowly waking stars.
She awed as the orb grew larger and larger. Apprehension caught her when it grew larger than the stars above, and dread gripped her when it made dwarfs of the twin moons. It was sunrise, and sunset. The orb – or whatever shape it could possibly be described as – sparkled a thousand colours and lights, none of which she could ever have imagined. It rained cold lava and burnt Icey flames. It was a ball of lightning, then a box of dreams, then a heart of iron and an eye of gold.
Then it grew smaller, much smaller. It coursed through the sky straight towards her; no more sparks, no more light. It wasn’t a shooting golden star; it was an arrow. Black and steel and deadly. The majesty was gone though the intent was newly apparent. Simple and obvious, a shard of oily black steel ripping the sky apart in search of the young girl.
Then it flew through the trunk of a tree ahead of her, and she was being pushed to the ground by warm hands.
“Ev!” Her sister cried as she dove atop of her. She placed herself between the shard and its target and she would suffer the consequences. It tore into her shoulder with the same force it had torn through the tree with, only, it didn’t go through. It seemed lodged within Ash. It nestled and burrowed but it should have burst through to the over side.
“Ash!” She screamed. The elder sister, Ashtik, lay limply atop of her. “Please, no no no...” She whispered. A prayer came to the deepest pit of her heart. She didn’t say it. It was barely even conscious in her mind, but it grasped her soul.
“Please don’t take my sister”
Dirt, damp and cold. A drop of blood warmed her back, and she was almost grateful for it. A cool breeze sheered across her like a blade of ice. The constant sound of: Clip clop, clip clop, clip clop... A horse? It must have been. Then she felt the rolling of wheels over hardened mud. Her hand fell below, and she realised she was lying down. It must have been wood. Damp planks, stained with blood and rain. The cool night air, lit only by the half-moon and its sister, captured her breath as clouds of mist. She drew on what effort she could and turned her head awkwardly to the side.
There was the girl. Steel eyes welled with tears. Beautiful white hair flowed to her hips. Her flawless skin holding the same natural tan of their mother. Evara. Her baby sister. Her world.
“Ev...?” Ashtik meekly called. It was all she could manage; something had sapped her strength and her voice. The young girl dove from the carriage into the dirt at Ash’s side. A great splash of hardened mud sullied her pristine dress, but for once she didn’t seem to care.
“Don’t move, Ash,” her sister ordered, her voice dripping with worry.
“What...” Ash tried to say. “What happened?”
“Something struck you...” Evara timidly replied.
“Something?”
“I know not what it was. A... starlight wisp?" Evara suggested. Her attention fell from Ash’s gaze and towards her wound. She removed the bandage for a moment and Ash caught a glimpse of the blood-stained cloth that had been used. Evara’s face drained of colour once it was removed, though she didn’t speak.
“What is it?” Ash asked. Her response was not in words, but action. Her steel eyes erupted into golden flame. Evara’s hands outshone the stars as she focused on Ashtik’s wounds. She seemed to exert a frantic effort into her magics, though relief didn’t find her once she finished. She erupted yet again and placed even greater agony into the wound.
Evara collapsed atop of Ash. It was expected, the common result of her using her power, though what she had been so intent on healing illuded Ash. Though she was fatigued, she felt uninjured. Had the blood not been so obviously pooled around her, she’d have doubted she had so much as a scratch on her body.
Ash gathered herself and sat against the rolling cart, cradling the newly sleeping Evara in her arms.... And then she understood.
It swirled within her. It ebbed and flowed through every vein and artery. It saturated her skin and burned away all impurities. Where blood ought to have gushed, a strange mound of black and purple veins erupted. They spread like an infection, rapidly swarming her skin as though searching for something. Evara tried to clean the wound, though it had no effect. Then it seemed she had attempted to cauterise where the flesh had been sundered. Despite the burns around the purple mound, the severed flesh refused to be re-fused.
The shard had parted the skies, split light into new and impossible colours... and it had torn muscle and bone to shreds. It didn’t hurt, though. It didn’t even bleed anymore. Tentacles and tendrils of purple corruption spread across her like a cancer. From the shard above her heart, it crept along. The furthest of its vile feelers made its way to down her belly and across her legs. Another rushed her throat until it found her head, and all stored within it. Her entire body must have been consumed in putrid death before it stopped. Once it’s spread had found every inch of her, it began to consolidate. She saw it cede her legs and felt it loosen around her neck. It drew the corruption from her extremities and pushed deep into her left hand. The purple deepened in her palm to an abyssal black as it seemed to retreat from the rest of her body. Even the shard seemed to drain. Where purple and black tentacled veins had sprawled from the embedded black steel, nothing remained. Not the shard, nor a scar where her flesh had been so violently torn asunder. Perfect smooth skin had been restored, even down to her tan lines and freckles.
“How do you feel?” Evara sleepily asked, her head still cradled within Ash’s arms. There was no honest answer for the fearful girl, so Ash wiped her little tear away and lied.
“I’m well. Don’t worry.” She stroked a stray hair from her little sister's face, and then her heart sank to her belly, and fear gripped her.
She saw her hand, and the deathly mark it bore.
“What the fuck?” She gasped. She threw her hand as far from her face as it would go. She slid further from it, as though it weren’t attached to her. The panic denied her breath as her eyes affixed to the swirling black blaze that lay just beneath the surface of her skin. The deeper she gazed, the deeper the mark seemed to be. At a glance, it seemed to rest atop of the skin like a tattoo; lock your gaze to it and you might find a well of abyss deeper than her hand could physically allow.
“What is that?” She cried. Ash clawed at the blackened skin as if to dig the mark out. She’d have torn the flesh away with a blade, if she’d had one to hand.
“Calm yourself,” Evara said, though her tone suggested she was just as panicked. “We’re nearly home. The Elder will know what to do.”
The words froze in her like tears in a snowstorm. She focused on them; on the little voice that spoke them. It gave her a measure of strength, though it didn’t break her abominable leer. Her gaze never quivered from her hand. It remained outstretched as she stood, and as Evara guided her along the forest floor.
It was full dark when they returned, past the first hour of the new day. All that time, Ash had refused to allow the mark from her sight. If she so much as blinked too hard, the black would consume even more of her form; or so she seemed to believe. They skulked through the desolate streets as the carriage that had carried them moved along its merry way.
“Elder!” Evara called as she carried what little of Ashtik’s weight she could. She banged against a little oak door set into a grassy hillock. She banged so heavily that the hanging torch above them rattled and threatened to bound atop of them. It wasn’t long before a croaky old voice rang from within. The Elder marched audibly from within the home and called out – in a voice thick with annoyance, “Evara! I swear by the gods, if you’ve started another fire...” He threw the door open and met the two by candlelight. “Sai-Weleg?” He gasped as his eyes fell upon the barely able to stand woman.
“Please, Elder, she’s hurt,” Evara begged.
“Of course, come quickly.” He stepped aside and allowed the two to limp into his home.
He was quick to work. He cut away her leather padded shirt to expose where Evara reported the shard to have been embedded.
“Is this a joke?” He questioned when presented with the unblemished skin of Ash’s shoulder.
“No! Please, something struck her. It must be magical!” Evara insisted. Tears welled in her steel eyes and ran, without restraint, down her rosy little face.
“Child, I can’t treat what isn’t there,” the Elder insisted. Ash lay back on his bed before raising her hand to his eyeline.
“Can you treat that?” She sighed. His eyes widened, what could be horror – or fascination – consumed him.
“Oh, child... In this moment, no magic nor power beyond it would suffice to prevent what is to happen next – and all that will come because of it,” the Elder whispered. He took her marked hand into his own and squeezed it tight. “Don’t fear this, Sai-Weleg. It is not your enemy.”
“Then what is it?” Ash asked. He released her hand and she stroked the mark lightly. That he held it so tightly with no aversion gave her a level of comfort. It made her feel a little less fateful.
“It’s the mark of a Champion,” He answered.
“But... That’s not possible?” Evara protested. “The Champions council is complete. There are no more Champions.”
“And yet... Here one lies.”
“Hang on!” Ash protested. “What the hells is a Champion?” She asked. The Elder chuckled at the question.
“Do you know nothing beyond the Veil?” He disapprovingly asked.
“Why should I? I’m a huntress, not an adventurer.” Ash huffed. His eyes danced between Ash and Evara. He scanned over the ornately dressed younger. Her perfect white riding skirt, stained with the blood of the day. Her delicate – though cheaply made – jewellery. Her scholar’s squint.
Then his gaze fell to Ashtik, the elder. Her red leather armour that failed to cover her well-toned belly. Her empty sheathes and numerous practical pouches. The sides of her head, neatly shaven. Red chains tattooed around her arms and across her shoulders. Names written in occasional links. A short woman, slim and athletic as a hunter ought to be. Her deep purple eyes looked almost black under the candlelight, and her nose looked much more crooked after each breakage. A thin streak of red across the middle of her lips. Leaves on a vine, hidden beneath the braids over her neck.
The two sisters couldn’t be more unalike.
“There is more to this world than the forest, Ashtik. I think this is something you are soon to learn,” the Elder laughed. “Evara... Would you be so kind as to explain the Champions to your sister?”
“Of course,” Evara smiled. The child never missed an opportunity to regurgitate what she had read in one of the Elder’s many scrolls.
“The Champions are chosen ones, picked out by the gods as paragons of their domains. Each Champion is heir to a realm and a ‘god weapon’. There’s one champion for each god. The Champion’s power depends on the significance of the patron god. For instance; Rein Khan, the Champion of the crimson goden. He has the Storm cane which can control the weather. Then there’s Debrov Marton, the Champion of the orange goddess. She can make trees sprout fruit,” Evara explained with a face-cracking grin. “Only... All the Champions have been chosen. Unless a new god has popped up?”
“So... I’m one of these Champions?” Ashtik scoffed.
“I hope not,” the Elder whispered. He strolled from her bedside to a great diamond box filled with scrolls. He dug around for a moment before finally coming upon a musky old letter, sealed in broken golden wax.
“You don’t want me to be a champion?” Ash questioned.
“It would mean a great many things are coming.” He opened the letter and read through it. “Great things; terrible, but great. Rest now and come the morrow, return to the forest. I believe the sparrows will guide you.”
“Sparrows? Guide me where?” Ash questioned.
“I couldn’t possibly know, but I hope I am wrong. Return home now goodlys,” He said in a kind but wearied tone.
The night was frantic and restless, though she slept the whole way through. She dreamt of a great void. White and nothing spanned all around her. She woke here and stood, though her feet found no purchase. There lacked an up, or a forward, but there was light and space.
“Hello?” She called to the nothing that surrounded her. “Who’s there?”
She turned in place, though it made no difference in this directionless space. Dread gripped her again and her voice caught in her throat.
“Who are you?” She asked the nothingness before her. “It's not nothingness. Where are you?” She called.
Again, she received no reply. “Please, I don’t know where I am? Who are you?” She asked. “Stop saying what I’m doing! Who are you?” Ashtik ordered.
Her breathless words echoed eternally in the nothingless void. “How do you know my name? Where are we? Who are you?” She asked again.
It took her a while to comprehend, though she could never truly do so. The easy truth was, she was simply dreaming.
“This isn’t a dream.” She protested. “I can feel... It’s too real. Please just answer me!” She cried.
She rose with the sun and a sweaty jolt. Her heart raced and her mind fought to overtake. The dream was so vivid, but the memory of it was slipping, even now. She remembered a void, and the fear, then just the void.
“You’re awake?” Evara dreamily grumbled. The girl had fallen asleep at her bedside. Her hair had sprawled out into a crazed bundle of knotted and matted tangles.
“Aye, but it’s still early. Go back to sleep,” Ash said. She stroked a gentle hand over her sister’s head and patted down a few exceptionally wild hairs.
“Okay...” Evara mumbled as sleep took her again. Ash drew from her bed and gathered some clothes. Her shoulder yet ached from the night's ordeal, so she elected to dress in a rough cotton shirt and pants in place of her usual armour. Something of the night played on her mind as she bound her braids, though she couldn’t remember what.
Her hand still caused her discomfort. A simple glance and her heart would drop at the impossible depth of it. She dug a winter glove from the bottom of her draw, cut off the fingers and sealed her fears beneath it.
“Long night, Snowy?” Tilak asked in a hush. He poked his head through the bedroom door, his grey eyes looked around her room and fell upon the still sleeping young.
“Very,” Ash whispered back. She left the room at his side and slid the door shut behind her.
“Well... Breakfast is ready. Shall we rouse Ev?” Tilak smiled. A tuft of deep brown hair fell across his sun kissed old skin. He had grown skinny in his twilight; it made him look much older, though he had recently begun shaving his beard away in some feeble attempt to regain his youth. He was a foot taller than her but stood as though he was half her size. The proud hunter he had once been existed now only in the glint of his eye.
“No, let her sleep.” She dragged him into a hug. She almost dangled from him as her arms clung around his neck. He laughed with what little breath he could manage. “Okay? The hug is nice?” He chuckled into her shoulder. “Is everything alright, Snowy?”
She parted the hug and matched his chuckle. “Yeah, sorry. It was a very long night.”
They crossed the tiny oak corridor and entered the largest room of the house, the kitchen. Miel stood over a firepit while a kettle boiled over it. “Goodmorrow, Mother,” Ash said with a sliver of ice.
“Hello, Ashtik,” Miel answered. The older woman pointed a wooden ladle towards the table at the end of the room and Ash took the seat facing her.
“So, what were you two up to last night?” Tilak asked. He placed an empty plate in the setting before her before taking a seat at the head of the table.
“I’m sure the Elder will let you know soon enough,” Ash grunted.
“The Elder?” Miel shrieked. “You disturbed the Elder? Ashtik you’re nineteen; you cannot act the child for the rest of your life!”
“I didn’t have a choice!” Ash protested.
“I am sure you didn’t,” Miel doubted. “Gods willing, I hope you didn’t drag your sister into whatever mess you’ve made this time!”
Her mother dragged the kettle from the flame and slammed it against the stone base at the centre of the wooden table. She dove the ladle in and poured out a violent portion for Ash and Tilak. Her jet-black hair – frazzled from the kettle’s heat – nearly whipped Ash’s face as the older woman spun on her heel.
“Enough, wife,” Tilak pled. “Ash will visit the Elder and apologise later. For now, let's just eat.”
“Apologise?” Ash nearly shouted. She rose from the table and stormed to the threshold.
“Sit down!” Miel called.
“You want me to apologise? For what? You don’t even know what happened,” Ash said.
“Then tell us,” Tilak calmly said.
She tore the glove from her hand and presented them with... Tan skin and a broken nail. The mark was gone, the soul wrenching abyss had been left to their imagination. She stood there with her arm outstretched, though nothing to show for it.
“Snowy, talk to me,” Tilak said. He rose from the table and took her shaking hand, though he couldn’t peel her eyes from it. “What happened?”
“I-” She stammered. “I... Don’t know.” Ash pulled her hand back from her father and toed the threshold with her back turned. She swallowed a breath and shot her father an unsettled glance before departing.
Ash rolled the circular oak door shut and slid down the heavy iron bolt behind her before strolling along the dirty and cobbled pathway through the village. The hour was yet early, and the tiny village had yet to rouse. Tilak’s home was nestled beneath its own hillock at the far border of the clearing; the privilege of a master hunter. It used to be his sole duty to bring home meat for the clearing, though he had abdicated the honour once Ash turned seventeen. His ever-worsening health, matched against her remarkable aptitude for the trade, forced him into a life of shamefully gentle living. He still joined her at times. Though he was often a burden, he was one she always bore gladly.
She arrived at the village walls. Great steaks of oak, sharpened at the top and with iron barbs protruding along the lengths. The walls had been unchanged – and unchallenged – since before Ash was born, maybe even before the Elder had been.
“Sai Weleg?” Carolet, the lone guardsman called from atop the wall.
“Morrow, Caro,” She replied. Ash moved quickly towards him, gathering enough speed to jump and clamber up the oak walls. She came just short of reaching the top, but the guardsman was ready with his halberd to drag her up. She gripped the ironwood shaft and pulled herself over with a quiet effort.
“Strange apparel today, Sai-Weleg?” Carolet pointed out as he helped her to her feet.
“I woke up too sore for armour,” She laughed as she stretched out her shoulder.
“But not too sore to climb a three-metre steak?” He laughed. The middle-aged man straightened out over her; his long grey beard still bore the crumbs of his morning's meal. He wore a brigandine cloak, custom made by a master armourer during his youthful years as a free rider. The decades since its creation hadn’t been kind, despite his fervent restorations and repairs.
“It's strange. The... Pain, it disappeared in an instant. It seems almost a dream now,” Ash quietly admitted.
“So, you are well enough for a lesson today?” He smirked.
“I wish,” Ash laughed. “I think the Elder and I will be busy. Next time?”
“Fine,” the old warrior bowed. “But it’ll be short-sword and shield, not spears.”
Ash sighed at the thought as she ran a finger over her palm, where his dulled blade had managed to cut her last time.
“I’m so much better with a spear, though,” she complained.
“Aye, and so you must learn with a blade,” he said with very little pity.
“Why? I can’t be great at everything. Surely I can just focus on what I'm good at?” Ash protested.
Carolet rested a leather gloved hand on her shoulder and said with a warm smile, “You run well, does that mean you never needed to learn to walk? The blade will teach you good fundamentals, and it will help you better understand your foe and his decisions in battle.”
“My enemies are boars and deer, old man. All I need to understand is how to bait them and how to skin them,” she laughed.
“You have no ambition beyond the hunt? You do not wish to join your brother?”
“Join him? Where, some bloodpit in Tevra? I’m a huntress. I enjoy being a huntress,” she sneered. "Ambition is for young corpses. He can go and die somebody else’s wars; I’ll live happily among the animals.”
“A waste,” he sighed, “but one of your choosing.”
They strolled along the alure for a while with little in the way of conversation. They made for the centre of the village, where the hearthhome lay. It was not the shortest path, but Ash enjoyed walking it with Carolet. He reminded her of how Tilak had been some years ago, calm and confident; capable and kind. She had spent too much of her life alone amongst the trees to make easy conversations, and most of the villagers tended to think lesser of her for it, but Caro never seemed to mind. He seemed to enjoy her quiet company as much as she did, and she was always glad to try and follow his conversation when he offered it.
She split from the parapet as a tradeswoman offered Carolet her greetings. The older woman dragged the guardsman into her habitual morning's conversation, and Ash gracelessly dodged away from her without so much as a farewell to Carolet.
The first stirrings of the day came. Goodwives spread seed for the communal chickens while their husbands made attempts at petty maintenance around the homes. The smith’s sons gathered sacks of peat while the miller’s daughter made eyes at the eldest of the bunch. Vamet, the curio trader from Oaran had set up his stall the day prior and would remain for the fortnight. Evara always loved the strange man’s visits, simply because he tended to bring along some silly little scroll for her to trade for. The last time he came, Ash had traded an entire bear pelt for the “Pontifications on the beastsmen of Telek Aob.” The scroll unfolded came to be twice her height, though it spoke only of strange men on the opposite side of the continent.
She made her way to Vamet, and poked over his storefront while he unboxed some strange, assorted spices.
“Glad Morrow, Ashtik Set-Weleg," the little man said. He bounced to the wooden stall he had built in the middle of the town square. The overwhelming fragrance of whatever perfume he had bathed himself in managed to drown out the array of spices and goods that lay between them. His strange yellow and red tunic sagged over his undersized body, giving him the look of a much fatter man. His short, stubby nose and disproportionately thick neck made him seem closer to a poorly bred nobleman's dog than a world wizened trader.
“It’s Sai-Weleg, Ser Vamet. Set-Weleg means a ‘tree that hunts,’” Ash mindlessly corrected as she perused the wares with a focused interest. “But I thank you for remembering me.”
“I could never forget thee, Ashtik. The white haired seventeen-year-old who felled a greatbear alone!” He said with an exaggerated curtsey. “Might I ask then, what is it that Sai-Weleg means in thine tongue?”
“Sai means daughter, Weleg means hunt,” she simply replied.
“So, thee and the sister are named Sai-Weleg for thine hunter father?” The energetic man intuited.
“No. My sister doesn’t have a name yet; she’s just Evara. And I’m not named for my father, I received the name after I completed my huntress rites. Every vocation has their own rites in our culture,” Ash half mindedly explained, her interest more so focused on a strange crystal ball resting within an ox skull.
“How interesting; so, what would I, as a travelling merchant of mythical goods, be named?” He politely asked, thought he slapped her hand away from rolling the crystal ball across the stall table.
“Either Jai-cohge for a merchant or Jai-Tave for traveller,” she said.
“Then I greet thee as Vamet of Behmet, Jai-cohge, traveller of the Temperate expanse, curio master and personal antiquarian to thy great Ashtik Whitehair, Sai-Weleg and sister to Evara the learned.” She humoured his performance with a slight bow, though was glad to hear his voice quieten as he continued.
“So... Are you here to pre-hold something for young Evara?” He said, no longer the performer but entirely the salesman.
“It depends on what you have?” Ash cooly said.
“A great deal...” He seemed to consider. “Though for such a valued customer, I may have something rather more interesting...” He slowly said. He bristled at his non-existent moustache before diving below his stall and routing around for a while too long.
“Just anything written will do.” Ash finally said when she realised how long he had taken.
“’Just anything’ may do for these common rabble, but for a refined lady – such as your young sister – only the best will do!” He said through the stall. “Huzzah!” He called and bounced to his feet.
The effort of the movement dislodged his blue hairpiece and left his bald head exposed. He noticed quickly, but didn’t seem even a little embarrassed, instead laughing and throwing the false hair aside. He produced a tome, small and leather bound with a strange device attached to the side.
“A tome?” Ash questioned. He didn’t let her touch it but presented it before her. “What is it about?” She asked.
“It is about whatever thee wishes.” He whimsically said.
“It is enchanted?” She asked.
“Not in the way thee would think.” He cautiously answered. Vamet peeled the cover open and presented the first page; a sheet of pale-yellow parchment bound to a hundred others. It held no text nor any depictions.
“It’s empty?” Ash questioned.
“It is called a journal. It's all the rage with teenage girls in Xio Vien. This device is called a scrawler.” He removed a metal shaft from the spine of the journal. “It was enchanted in the forgelands to mark upon parchment eternally.”
“What would she write in it?” Ash questioned.
“Whatever the young lady likes. A tale of romance? The acts of her own life, or mayhaps a guide on the huntress arts?” He suggested.
She considered for a short while, though mostly as a performance. She knew Evara would love the tome and that she needed to get it for her, but she didn’t want Vamet to think of her as too enthused and overcharge her.
“I guess I can take it.” Ash calmly said while toying with a folding knife lay on the table.
“Ah, a wise and brilliant mind makes a wise and brilliant decision.” Vamet flattered.
“What do you want for it?”
“A... Small boon, of course.” He said with a wicked grin.
“I don’t think I have any boons; I’ve got skins, pelts and meat though.” Ash said.
“No, fair one. A favour,” he corrected.
“And the favour is?” She asked, feigning annoyance.
“You see, while I was enroute here, a group of... Scoundrels, descended upon me. I was forced to leave a measure of my stock in the woods. I would ask that you recover it and in exchange I will give you the journal and anything you wish from what you recover,” he explained.
She didn’t entertain the thought for long before flatly saying, “No.”
“No?” Vamet gasped.
“The Elder can tell the baron if there are bandits in the woods, but I won’t go off and fight them. I’m sorry,” she heartily said.
“I understand,” Vamet bowed. “But this is an expensive curio from across the seas. I cannot part with it for pelts and meat. I may have other items for young Evara in my case. Return later and I will see,” he said firmly but not unkindly. She bowed and made on her way.
“Sai-Weleg!” The Elder called from across the town square.
“Elder,” Ash bowed. He looked tired in the daylight, as though he hadn’t slept a wink since they last met. It seemed the night had added a couple dozen wrinkles to his avaricious collection. “I was just coming to find you.” Ashtik said in a respectful tone. The Elder wasted no time and grabbed her hand for inspection.
“The mark?” The Elder mumbled. He ran a finger across her palm, his paper-thin skin tracing a line along the missing mark.
“It was there when I awoke and gone not an hour later.” She explained. He looked her in the eyes before beckoning to her shoulder.
“May I?” He asked. She nodded and slid the cotton shirt down her shoulder, just high enough that it wasn’t indecent. The ender pressed his palm against her shoulder; it made her wince in pain, though it was her hand that flinched, not her shoulder.
“I can feel the shard now,” he said. “It is embedded deep within your chest. It is a wonder you are alive. Its proximity to your heart and lungs is worrying, but if it has caused no issues yet, I see no reason it should start any time soon.”
“But what happened to the mark?” Ash asked as she pulled her shirt back up.
“I do not know. What happened when it disappeared?” He questioned.
“Nothing... I didn’t even notice.” She said.
“What were you doing at the time?”
“I was... Arguing with my parents,” she admitted with a hint of embarrassment.
“You were angered?”
“I... Yes.”
“Mayhaps the mark reacts poorly to anger?” He suggested. “Champions are paragons of traits; their marks often rebel against the champion if they oppose those traits.”
“So I'm the Champion of mild temperament?” Ash sneered. “The gods do have a sense of humour.”
“The gods would not have chosen you for your temperament," he immediately shut down.
He fell silent for a short while. She felt his gaze more heavily than the quickening breeze. After a moment of silent contemplation, his eyes darted high and a smile found him.
“I believe it is time for answers,” he said, his eyes fixed well above her. She turned to find what he looked at so gladly and found a simple smoky sparrow circling in the sky above her. “Follow the sparrow, Ash.” His tone having grown more dire in the instant since she turned her back to him.
She followed north, then east, and then southwest. She circled a massive iron wood as wide as her home. It rushed across a stream, and over a hill and past a field of red reeds. The little songbird seemed to have no interest in being followed and made every attempt to lose her as it flew. Nearly two decades of hunting experience was all that kept her close behind it. She dove over ditches and sprung from treetops. She dashed past deer and elk by the score and even passed over a wolf as it stalked prey of its own. It was nearly a two-hour chase, in every direction but straight, before the sparrow came to rest among its fellows. Fifty pure black sparrows and as many corvids lay in a small clearing in the woods.
Ash managed to bear herself east of the village, though there was no saying how far she had gone. She timidly approached the newly bold sparrow as it sat, unbothered by her, amongst its host. She crept, near soundlessly, towards the murder and spotted – at their centre – what must have drawn them. There sat an obelisk of oily black steel. She was too far to touch it but could see the sunlight reflecting iridescently from the slick outer layer. It was small and angular; it could have been a sculpture or a natural formation. The base stuck out like a black marble pillar, but it was of a different material from the pedestalled item above it. Light didn’t bound from it, instead being sucked in and trapped within. It rose less than a foot up though it could have been set deep within the grass beneath it. The ‘item’ above was shifting and pulsing. Half-way between a ball of fungi reaching and clawing over an old corpse and a barbed wire box keeping dark treasures concealed. It melded between an arrow tip and a flower; then a sparrow and a spider. It had the birds entranced, though Ash could barely stand to look at it.
“Ash?” A little voice called from the treeline. She turned to face it and was met with a pure white sparrow fluttering along a gentle breeze. It circled the murder and host for a moment before landing at their centre. It pecked mindlessly at the obelisk which seemed to warp itself to avoid the little songbird.
“Ash?” The little voice whispered this time, though it still came from behind her. She twisted in place and met her steel gaze. Pure white hair flowed over an elegant red and white dress, unmarred by dirt or forestry.
“Ev?” Ash gasped. “What are you doing here?”
Evara’s eyes drifted from her sister towards the gathering of songbirds behind her, and the cosmic aberration at their centre.
“I... Followed the sparrow; like the Elder said,” she said through dreamy breaths.
“How did you manage to keep up? I near on lost it a dozen times,” Ash asked. She ran a hand over her sister’s head, checking for scuffs or scratches. She found none.
“It guided me, it was no more than a couple of paces ahead of me the whole way.” She drifted, almost mindlessly, past Ash and towards the obelisk. “What is that?” She asked.
“I don’t know.” Ash admitted. She stepped ahead of Evara as they moved closer. She bound like a spring with each step, ready to pounce should the need arise.
“Agh!” Ash screamed collapsing heavily onto her knee as she clutched her left hand. The sparrows took the sound as their permission to break away. A cloud of fluttering wings swarmed in all directions as Ash keeled over.
“Ash?” Evara called through the deafening torrent of fluttering wings. She dropped to a knee beside her elder sister and placed a healing hand on her shoulder.
“No!” Ash shouted, springing her right arm out to stop her sister from exerting her magics on her.
“What’s happening, sister?” Evara begged. The question was pointless, though. They could both see what pained her.
The mark grew and consumed. It pulsed across her hand and seemed to reach out for the oily obelisk. She couldn’t resist the pull. Her hand flung forth and the black mound dashed towards her. It tore through the air and left in its wake the sensation of a lightning strike.
She gripped it hard, and it seemed to turn to clay in her hand. She felt it wrap around her and seep within her. She felt it change her. She felt the power, the fate and the design.
She felt dangerous.
Ashtik battled the black with a blood curdling scream. She rose from her knees and clutched her hand before her. This thing within her seemed to hate her. It wanted to change her, make her its champion. She wouldn’t let it. Her hand clenched harder than she knew it could. Blood seeped from her nose as the effort of resistance burst blood vessels within her. Bruising spread like spilt ink on parchment across her reddening skin. Veins popped and burst around her and drool spilt from her lips. The screams lost their voice and turned simply to breathless wind. Her eyes bulged red. Blood seeped between her teeth, then something beyond blood. Something black and something purple. A radiance. An energy. It took the space around her and gouged out the dirt beneath her.
She threw her hand high. She pointed it at the gods, at whichever gods had given it to her. She showed them the mark that she would conquer. She mocked their attempts, and their given pain.
A final cry slipped her and for the final time, she balled her fist and threw it to the dirt beneath her. She pounded down, over and over, until she beat the continent into submission. Until the pain in her hand subsided and submitted. Until the mark was not the gods, but hers.
Ashtik grew feint, but she refused to submit; to sleep. She found her feet again and tried to stand on unsteady legs. She wobbled for a moment as her head hanged low. Her eyes were too blurred by blood to see what remained of the mark, but she knew within what she had done. She had beaten it. She had embraced it.
A voice carried on the wind, but it was muffled and mumbled. It was nothing compared to the rustling of the trees and the chirping of the songbirds. One had remained from the murder. The pure white sparrow that had so gently guided Evara to this spot. Why had it done so? Why had it remained? Did it want Evara to experience that same pain?
Her will was strong, but her body wasn’t. She could no longer stand on malice and spite, so her legs gave out beneath her. The voice carried again, like the pitter patter of rain on the hillock she lived beneath. Calming and warm, though in the background until she slept, and it was all she could hear.
“Talk to me. Are you okay?” The gentle rains begged through the hailstorm that had begun in her ears. Her eyes returned to her, though her sight was dim. She brought her hand high and splayed out her fingers. She didn’t bother to wipe the blood from her eyes or lips.
“Oh, Evara,” she darkly whispered. A Black steel gauntlet encased her marked hand and grim smile wrapped around her blooded lips. She straightened her back and lavished her eyes on her perfect little sister as the gauntlet morphed and formed around her. “I have never been better.”