Can’t wait for the sequel to Trials of the Innermost? Here’s a teaser from the first chapter of book two (code named ROTP) of the Etherea Cycle. It’s a behind the scenes of our process as this is the raw, unedited text. Final version may vary.
Chapter 1
Waverling burned.
The perpetual golden light from the sun on the horizon behind the Shrine of Laphrim sent rainbow beams from the crystalline towers. Normally brilliant, they were now muted by a forlorn gray as smoke rose and ash floated in paper-thin pieces from the sky. Like a volcano had erupted.
In a way, Ansgar thought, it had.
“Komor’s army flowed like lava out of the maintenance tunnels of the canals. Right up into the cobbled streets. Me an’ the misses barely made it out of the city.” The man nodded to a woman clinging taught the paisley print of a shawl against her breast. The man still wore an apron with streaks of gray that matched a clay worker.
Ansgar’s gaze drew back to the gabled rooftops of Waverling, their usual fine lines like murky watercolor behind the haze. “You’re positive they were soldiers?”
The man bobbed his head. “I saw ‘em myself. Crimson and black leathers.”
“Right after those senseless rebels tried to overthrow the Spectres,” the woman grumbled. “The male pages attacked the Shrine! What they thought they could do to the sanctuary without magic is beyond me. Shouting about equal rights and all.”
Ansgar suppressed a grin. He imagined the Spectres who’d ransacked and shut down his fake discount Runner’s Office, nearly dragging him out of Waverling in the process, walking back to their holy Magisterium only to find the pages armed and refusing to hold the doors open for them any longer. It could have been him in there, battling through explosions and fire. If he’d had more than a whisper of magical ability.
“Dodged a jeroti bite on that.” Ansgar tapped the inside of his purple hat with his fist, making sure the crown popped out then placed it on his head. The eyes of the man before him trailed what Ansgar knew was the long violet plume waving in the breeze. “Thank you ever so much for the information.” Ansgar bowed with a flourish then spun away, the long brown coat twirling at his shins.
“Are you not going to wait for the lock-down to lift?” the man called.
“Nope. I got kicked out anyway!” Ansgar called over his shoulder with a wave of his arm. He turned his feet toward the northwestern forest and the transportation device, the Vanishing Stage, he’d only left half an hour ago. The conifers marking the wood’s edge were just up the hill.
It was good to know the rumors he’s heard after his unceremonious banishment—before he’d met up with the Truthseekers—had been correct. He mentally patted himself on the back for trusting the trading caravans stuck outside the gate, and for staying out of the fray.
“When danger is a comin’, you best get to runnin’,” he sang to himself.
The phrase drew his thoughts to the last time he had uttered it. Which was far too recent for his liking. It was his last encounter with Kilahym and ascertaining the status of the Truthseekers.
“Together we can do great things,” Kilahym said to the remaining Truthseekers.
The tug in Ansgar’s chest wanted to believe him. The younger man looked stronger, and not just in his muscles, than Ansgar had last seen him.
Kilahym turned to Ansgar. “You can come with us, if you like.”
Ansgar knew they performed well together on Waverling’s Great Stage, or any stage that would have them. But this…this statement felt like the speech of a dignitary. Something… respectable.
“I must decline,” Ansgar said, placing his hat over his heart. “Fortune and glory await, little Hymn.” He shivered, wishing he had a second coat for Komor’s frozen darkness. “Though, maybe not in there.” He thumbed over his shoulder into the sarkumak forest’s tall sporestalks.
A shadow crossed Kilahym’s face but like a candle blown out by the wind it vanished and Ansgar’s friend grinned then began packing his few possessions.
Kilahym had that rare gift of hearing the gentle whistle of the reeds of life everywhere. Ansgar heard drums of discontent but drowned it out by surrounding himself with the pleasures of life. For a moment, Ansgar debated staying with Hymn. The bard was clearly ready to save the world, as it were, and that energy was just the sort in which Ansgar loved to feast. But it was likely to be short-lived as real trials—not those constructed by the theatre which was the Trials of the Innermost—swooped in like othwits with sharpened talons on every hero’s journey. There were other, safer ways to sustain Ansgar’s way of life. Primarily, money. And he had secrets to sell.
Ansgar placed his wide-brimmed hat on his head and retreated with steps reminiscent of light-footed dancers. Then he spun, imagining his coat flinging out in a grand exit, and put the largest fungus-tree between him and the bard before Ansgar could glance behind, catch those sad honey eyes, and change his mind.
Once he was out of sight of the Truthseekers, Ansgar made a wide loop back through the Fellwood. Such a strange name for a forest full of sporestalks tall enough to be umbrellas for giants. Trying to avoid touching them, and inevitably triggering pulsing neon lights across their flesh, Ansgar returned to the Silbilstone Eyes’ transportation device he’d been forced to tell the Truthseekers about. Though, with Komor’s history of excavating technology they didn’t create, the device was likely not wholly unknown. At least he hadn’t told the seekers precisely where the machine rested, or how to make sure it transported to the capital of Heathström.
Ansgar plunged his hand into his coat’s pocket and double pressed the rounded metallic object there ; another just like the one he’d given to Hymn those months ago after Ansgar’s failed attempt to recruit him as a spy in the Sibilstone Eyes prior to the Trials ceremony. A lopsided grin tugged at his mouth as he recalled feisty Idrilia slipping another of the devices into her pocket moments ago. Now, Ansgar had two seekers tracked if they were to split up. At the least, their signal would be stronger to locate. Ohmet would be pleased.
Warm yellow lights blinked on around the base of a hexagonal frame and a low hum issued, slightly higher than the constant ambient drone of the building. Around the glowing edge were symbols like letters. Ansgar touched three in the order instructed to reach Waverling and they glowed orange. Ansgar stepped on the platform and took a deep breath. For a moment, the world seemed to pause. Then he blinked. He stepped off the identical platform into a room that could have fit the Bard Academy’s Great Stage. Its light dimmed where it rested, near one of the remaining walls. Ansgar eyed the four tunnels leading away from the hub, dimly lit by strings of lights, then focused on the remains of the crushed far wall. He could see the thick trees of the forest of Heathström beyond the shimmering gold veil that hid this place.
“Ah, home,” he sighed, then took a deep breath through his nose. “What a foul stench you have.”
Ansgar sniffed. It wasn’t as strong now as when he’d first been transported back to Heathström, but the smoke of a burning city still permeated the scent of evergreen trees. He checked his surroundings. With no one around, Ansgar entered the timberland.
Most of the locals avoided this section of the forest, but he wouldn’t be good at what he did if he didn’t make sure to sneak into the spy network’s supply cache. As he progressed, Ansgar watched for the moss-painted debris between tangled roots. From a perfunctory glance, the metal looked like any other rock decorated in forest sludge, but they were pieces of metal scattered among the roots. Like a pyreflower’s explosion, they dusted the area around Ansgar’s destination. The Sibilstone Eyes had their theories about what had been here before the Great Calamity.
When he saw the tree shaped like two long legs and two arms raised, he veered to its right. At the tree with a trunk like a woman in a skirt with her head tilted back, he turned left. The locals murmured that dremeniads, tree spirits, haunted these woods. The nice thing about stories is that they could contain truth as well as fiction. Tell enough of a believable story and fear of the thing protects it. It helped that there were no bird sounds in this area. Ansgar thought it was because of the low hum. He always left with a headache.
As Ansgar snuck closer to the entrance, hissing punctuated with the clack of chains broke the silence. A deep snarl vibrated Ansgar’s bones.
Ansgar dropped to the ground.
“You’re confident that no other Spectre’s followed you?” a man’s voice asked no further than Ansgar could toss a lute.
He debated crawling away from whatever clandestine meeting was occurring but something about the accent of the voice pulled the trabadour to it—a heavier accent on the consonants. With slow movements, Ansgar pulled himself along the forest floor until black shapes became visible between the mottled branches.
Rift wyrms. Disgusting creatures. They and their black-garbed riders formed a half-circle facing…Ifen?
“Of course,” the women scoffed. “We would not be so careless.”
There was no mistaking her [outfit and some other feature], feet crunching in the carpet of fallen leaves. Ansgar’s heart belched into his throat. This must be why she had been unreachable at times, disappearing “on Spectre business”. But really cavorting with the soldiers of Komor. Ifen, you insurgent.
Behind her stood two male attendants. Any other day, the spot would have been romantic with leaves gently twitching loose and gliding on the air. The trees were preparing for the new growth that followed the short shift of cooler weather. A fleeting diversion, like most charms of life.
“And your uprising? I take it you were successful in securing the Magisterium?”
“We were. Your soldiers’ attack provided us the distraction we needed, as you had planned. We will be able to forge a new government in the days to follow.”
“I would not be too hasty. There are still a few obligations left to complete.”
Ifen stepped close, dropping her bag. The rift wyrms hissed, malice glinting in their violet-flecked eyes as she approached. The riders’ faces were hidden behind an obsidian mask with slits for eyes, the outlines of features formed by thin white traceries.
“More than the surrender of an entire city?” Ifen challenged.
Ansgar knew that tone. She had used it whenever incredulous that Ansgar was truly trying to harness his magical gift. She had tried her best to train him years ago when they were untroubled youths, he didn’t fault her for his failing to be the first man to wield the title of Spectre. But that was before he’d become a troubadour. Before they’d decided, more recently, to explore how soft the sheet of her bed were. The Magisterium eventually found another man to show the citizens, “yes, we do care about men, see?”
The Komorese shook his head. “That was one agreement. The lack-luster leadership of your city must be made an example of. But we cannot have your rebellion turning against my army. Defend yourself with your sorcery.”
A Spectre page raised his hands in a warding gesture. A gauzy white veil appeared between him and the riders, and Ansgar relaxed. Even the male pages knew how to shield themselves from physical assault. One of the reasons Ansgar failed fantastically in his family-funded Spectre training—his magical ability that only manifested as light.
The black metal of a blade glinted in the grey light as it flickered toward the page and passed through the barrier. It buried itself in the man’s heart. Ansgar slapped his hand over his mouth. The man’s eyes widened as he stared at the hilt protruding from his chest before collapsing to the ground. The second page fell a moment after with a similar hilt embedded in his throat. How had the objects passed their wards?
“What is the meaning of this?” Ifen demanded, white sparks of magical energy appearing around her balled fists. She took a step forward toward the warriors’ commander but froze as similar knives appeared in all their hands.
“The terms have changed. Each leading member of the Magisterium will be executed in front of your shrine. Your little rebel companions will swear allegiance to Morahk’s army or suffer the same. You wanted a leveling of the gender power—now you have it.”
Ansgar swallowed. His sister was a Spectre, albeit a lower rank. And Ifen’s mother was the Magister’s handmaiden. How far down the chain of leadership would Komor dispatch?
“You won’t be able to placate a city for long with threats of magical weapons.”
“It is not magic, but the absence of it that you saw. Your witchcraft holds no power any longer. But your voice. This I need. Come, you will be the horn of change. You will let the city know that with the fall of the Magisterium rises our new alliance.”
The masked figure gripped Ifen by her arm and hoisted her on the rift wyrm behind him. It hissed and its muscular tail thrashed as its rider snapped the reins. He and the other Komorese crashed through the trees and out of sight.
Ansgar waited until the sounds disappeared. Darting his eyes around the trees, trying to detect any movement, Ansgar entered the clearing and retrieved Ifen’s bag.
He returned to his previous path, heart beating like a pectully’s wings and his feet moving with urgency. Within moments he saw the entrance to the supply cache. It was easy to spot, once someone explained what to look for; a section of the forest never moved with the wind. It was like someone had dropped a building-sized painting in the middle of the woods.
He stepped toward the wide trunk of a yellowbark tree and grinned. His body passed through unharmed into the grey-walled chamber containing the Vanishing Stage. Ansgar glanced behind him at the shimmering gold that marked the barrier and heaved a sigh of relief.
“Greyest of ladies, may they not find this place,” he murmured.