(no subject)
I'm getting started on the actual 'writing' of my novel this week. I thought i'd share the prologue here, feel free to comment on it.
Prologue:
The Son of Heaven
The Dark pursued them across the waters of the open sea.
Their tiny vessel labored against the northward current, forcing its way to the east, toward the silhouette of a small island, toward the brightening horizon of dawn. The mistress whispered to the ship in pained delirium, commanding the very wood through the sway of her magic. “Deliver us swiftly to land,” she ordered in the Tongue of Om, the language of true names, the language of creation itself. The ship, her loyal servant, obeyed.
She groaned in pain and grasped her swollen belly. She had been in labor since dusk. The Dark had come with nightfall to hunt her unborn child. She fought the desire to finish the pregnancy through the sheer force of her will. To deliver the child now would deliver the child to death. She would fight; she would wait for the dawn. But the child was eager to enter the world and fought against his mother. He strained and pushed against the tight warmth of her womb, begging release. The price of her struggle slowly poured from between her thighs in a stream of crimson.
Her companion sat facing the Dark, his grey eyes trained upon their adversary, his sword-arm grasping the worn grip of his blade. He knew that his ancient weapon would be of little use should the Dark overtake them, though that was of little concern. It offered comfort, however hollow, to feel of the trusted ivory hilt beneath his calloused fingers. The sword, Dein Endran, had been passed down through his family, from father to son, since before the reign of the first emperor. It chilled him to know that he would be the final master of the sword, the sonless son of a once noble lineage. The man, now an oath-breaker, welcomed the coming Dark; he welcomed the death that would follow their battle. Perhaps with the dawn, he would slip beneath the cold waters of death, and find forgiveness in the arms of his ancestors.
The Dark swirled in the distance; it veiled the faint light of the stars, eclipsed the light of the moon. It was a powerful servant of the Nameless Silence, and sought to devour the prophesied child in honor of its master.
The man spat a silent curse. He cursed the Order, his betrayal, the loss of his power. Yet he was proud in his disgrace. For the first time in his life he followed his heart. To deny the mistress would have been to deny his soul. For the mistress he had forsaken all other loyalties. He had given up the power of the Oath Lords to follow the prophecy with the mistress. It pained him to witness her agony, to watch her life slowly ebb away, to know that her death was now inevitable.
His mind wandered to their first meeting. It was nearly eighteen years ago, when he was a young initiate of the Order of the Sworn. How proud he had been when the imperial couriers came to the house of his father, requesting his presence in the City of Kings. He had traveled with all haste to the seat of the empire, where he met with the Voice of the Veils in the Garden of the Wise.
The Voice charged him to watch over the young daughter of Prince Seun, the betrothed to the heir-apparent of house Didean. The Voice told him of her search for wisdom and knowledge within the Turastir, the tower known as the Throne of the Weave. He prophesied that she would be the youngest to be made weaver, the title of the workers of true magic. She was a child of seven when he first laid eyes on her, there in the shadowed halls of the Turastir. How young and tender she was, with her dark brown hair and knowing doe-brown eyes. His love for her was immediate and all consuming.
His solace was found within the one oath that remained unbroken. An oath that gave him no tangible power yet signified the bond that connected him to the mistress. There in the tower so many years ago, he knelt before the young girl and promised to be her loyal companion, to protect her to his dying breath. She had stared into his soul and accepted both his oath and his love. He gave the gift of his true name, and she gave the gift in return. It was the most intimate bond of trust that he had ever shared with anyone. He had eagerly followed the mistress into betrayal, and he would follow her into the stillness of death, should she command it.
On they sped across the ocean, carried by the whispered words of the mistress, and the Dark gained upon them.
After what seemed an eternity, their small vessel drew close enough to the island for the mistress to compel the waves. She spoke the true names of tide and sea, and said in the Making, “By my power, swell now, grace us with your caress, and carry us quickly towards the white sand of the shore.” By her command the sea stirred around the ship, reaching up to embrace the mistress in the arms of a growing wave. They were propelled by the might of the ocean, drawn behind the force of a frothy crest, which crashed with a great roar upon the beach. Their vessel slid gracefully into the wet sand, before finding rest there among the white dunes.
He turned to his mistress and saw the blood that soaked her white gown. He saw her life there in the crimson pool at her feet. Her olive skin had paled to the color of lilies; her lips were tainted blue. “Time,” she whispered to her guardian between ragged breaths, “stall the Dark. Give me time.”
He drew the useless sword from its sheath and left the boat. The Dark seemed a roiling blot of ink, growing and shrinking against the coming light of day. It would fall upon them shortly. He prayed to the elder god E’lin, the god of heaven; he prayed that the mistress would have enough power to bring this child into the world. He prayed that the prophecy be made true. He heard the mistress groan and scream, no longer forced to fight the birth. She had given up the war with the child. It would be just as the prophecy ordained, he thought.
The Son of Heaven shall be born when the sky shakes with light reborn.
The oath-breaker bellowed and raised his voice in defiance, invoking names of long dead ancestors as he ran to meet the Dark. He would spend his life to see the mistress fulfill her place in the dance of destiny. His life was now in the hands of the gods.
In a flash of absolute blackness, the Dark fell upon him. He slashed wildly and screamed a silent scream. All sound vanished in the heavy shadow of the Dark. His silent cries fell upon his own deaf ears. He felt the icy grip tighten around him, felt it toss him like a poppet into the depths of the sea. His lungs filled with salty water, his limbs became stiff and rigid. Dein Endran slipped away, along with the burden of his life. He felt death in the sea. He welcomed it gladly, and submitted his life to destiny.
Yet death did not come.
He was spat from the mouth of the sea, pushed by a blinding white light that seemed to envelop him in warmth. He heard his true name echo from the light. It commanded him to live, to fight, to breathe. Compelled by the resonance of his true name, he had no choice but to obey. He tumbled along the shallow water towards the shore, carried by the pull of the tides. His entire body was frozen from the chill and the Dark. He felt himself drift in the stillness before slumber.
Then he dreamt. He dreamt of the blinding white light, his salvation in the Dark. He saw the heavens shake and tremble in the morning; he saw dawn break across the ocean, a golden fire spilling from the reflection of heaven upon the sea. He saw the light consume the Dark. He saw the blood of his mistress washed away by the rising tide. He saw his destiny in the blue eyes of a newborn boy.
The call of the gulls filled his ears, drew him back to the waking world. He felt the blessed light of the morning sun. It kissed his clammy skin, urged him to awaken. He heard the soft roar of the sea.
He heard the gentle cry of the boy.
When he found his strength, he moved from the chill of the sea to the side of the lifeless mistress. She held the child in unyielding arms. A look of contentment graced her countenance. “You look as you did when you were a child,” the man said softly, choking on his tears. “Your child favors your husband, I believe,” he said, “he would be pleased. We did well, my Queen, we did well. May death bring you the peace you were so often denied in life.” Then he saw, lying next to the body of the mistress was Dein Endran, half buried in the white sand. How had it returned to him from the depths of the sea? He keenly remembered having lost it in the battle with the Dark. It was of no consequence; the return of the sword was the least of the miracles that came with dawn.
He stared into the blue eyes of the boy, and the boy stared back, beckoning. The man knelt and took his destiny from the arms of the dead mistress and held him in a loving embrace.
Prologue:
The Son of Heaven
The Dark pursued them across the waters of the open sea.
Their tiny vessel labored against the northward current, forcing its way to the east, toward the silhouette of a small island, toward the brightening horizon of dawn. The mistress whispered to the ship in pained delirium, commanding the very wood through the sway of her magic. “Deliver us swiftly to land,” she ordered in the Tongue of Om, the language of true names, the language of creation itself. The ship, her loyal servant, obeyed.
She groaned in pain and grasped her swollen belly. She had been in labor since dusk. The Dark had come with nightfall to hunt her unborn child. She fought the desire to finish the pregnancy through the sheer force of her will. To deliver the child now would deliver the child to death. She would fight; she would wait for the dawn. But the child was eager to enter the world and fought against his mother. He strained and pushed against the tight warmth of her womb, begging release. The price of her struggle slowly poured from between her thighs in a stream of crimson.
Her companion sat facing the Dark, his grey eyes trained upon their adversary, his sword-arm grasping the worn grip of his blade. He knew that his ancient weapon would be of little use should the Dark overtake them, though that was of little concern. It offered comfort, however hollow, to feel of the trusted ivory hilt beneath his calloused fingers. The sword, Dein Endran, had been passed down through his family, from father to son, since before the reign of the first emperor. It chilled him to know that he would be the final master of the sword, the sonless son of a once noble lineage. The man, now an oath-breaker, welcomed the coming Dark; he welcomed the death that would follow their battle. Perhaps with the dawn, he would slip beneath the cold waters of death, and find forgiveness in the arms of his ancestors.
The Dark swirled in the distance; it veiled the faint light of the stars, eclipsed the light of the moon. It was a powerful servant of the Nameless Silence, and sought to devour the prophesied child in honor of its master.
The man spat a silent curse. He cursed the Order, his betrayal, the loss of his power. Yet he was proud in his disgrace. For the first time in his life he followed his heart. To deny the mistress would have been to deny his soul. For the mistress he had forsaken all other loyalties. He had given up the power of the Oath Lords to follow the prophecy with the mistress. It pained him to witness her agony, to watch her life slowly ebb away, to know that her death was now inevitable.
His mind wandered to their first meeting. It was nearly eighteen years ago, when he was a young initiate of the Order of the Sworn. How proud he had been when the imperial couriers came to the house of his father, requesting his presence in the City of Kings. He had traveled with all haste to the seat of the empire, where he met with the Voice of the Veils in the Garden of the Wise.
The Voice charged him to watch over the young daughter of Prince Seun, the betrothed to the heir-apparent of house Didean. The Voice told him of her search for wisdom and knowledge within the Turastir, the tower known as the Throne of the Weave. He prophesied that she would be the youngest to be made weaver, the title of the workers of true magic. She was a child of seven when he first laid eyes on her, there in the shadowed halls of the Turastir. How young and tender she was, with her dark brown hair and knowing doe-brown eyes. His love for her was immediate and all consuming.
His solace was found within the one oath that remained unbroken. An oath that gave him no tangible power yet signified the bond that connected him to the mistress. There in the tower so many years ago, he knelt before the young girl and promised to be her loyal companion, to protect her to his dying breath. She had stared into his soul and accepted both his oath and his love. He gave the gift of his true name, and she gave the gift in return. It was the most intimate bond of trust that he had ever shared with anyone. He had eagerly followed the mistress into betrayal, and he would follow her into the stillness of death, should she command it.
On they sped across the ocean, carried by the whispered words of the mistress, and the Dark gained upon them.
After what seemed an eternity, their small vessel drew close enough to the island for the mistress to compel the waves. She spoke the true names of tide and sea, and said in the Making, “By my power, swell now, grace us with your caress, and carry us quickly towards the white sand of the shore.” By her command the sea stirred around the ship, reaching up to embrace the mistress in the arms of a growing wave. They were propelled by the might of the ocean, drawn behind the force of a frothy crest, which crashed with a great roar upon the beach. Their vessel slid gracefully into the wet sand, before finding rest there among the white dunes.
He turned to his mistress and saw the blood that soaked her white gown. He saw her life there in the crimson pool at her feet. Her olive skin had paled to the color of lilies; her lips were tainted blue. “Time,” she whispered to her guardian between ragged breaths, “stall the Dark. Give me time.”
He drew the useless sword from its sheath and left the boat. The Dark seemed a roiling blot of ink, growing and shrinking against the coming light of day. It would fall upon them shortly. He prayed to the elder god E’lin, the god of heaven; he prayed that the mistress would have enough power to bring this child into the world. He prayed that the prophecy be made true. He heard the mistress groan and scream, no longer forced to fight the birth. She had given up the war with the child. It would be just as the prophecy ordained, he thought.
The Son of Heaven shall be born when the sky shakes with light reborn.
The oath-breaker bellowed and raised his voice in defiance, invoking names of long dead ancestors as he ran to meet the Dark. He would spend his life to see the mistress fulfill her place in the dance of destiny. His life was now in the hands of the gods.
In a flash of absolute blackness, the Dark fell upon him. He slashed wildly and screamed a silent scream. All sound vanished in the heavy shadow of the Dark. His silent cries fell upon his own deaf ears. He felt the icy grip tighten around him, felt it toss him like a poppet into the depths of the sea. His lungs filled with salty water, his limbs became stiff and rigid. Dein Endran slipped away, along with the burden of his life. He felt death in the sea. He welcomed it gladly, and submitted his life to destiny.
Yet death did not come.
He was spat from the mouth of the sea, pushed by a blinding white light that seemed to envelop him in warmth. He heard his true name echo from the light. It commanded him to live, to fight, to breathe. Compelled by the resonance of his true name, he had no choice but to obey. He tumbled along the shallow water towards the shore, carried by the pull of the tides. His entire body was frozen from the chill and the Dark. He felt himself drift in the stillness before slumber.
Then he dreamt. He dreamt of the blinding white light, his salvation in the Dark. He saw the heavens shake and tremble in the morning; he saw dawn break across the ocean, a golden fire spilling from the reflection of heaven upon the sea. He saw the light consume the Dark. He saw the blood of his mistress washed away by the rising tide. He saw his destiny in the blue eyes of a newborn boy.
The call of the gulls filled his ears, drew him back to the waking world. He felt the blessed light of the morning sun. It kissed his clammy skin, urged him to awaken. He heard the soft roar of the sea.
He heard the gentle cry of the boy.
When he found his strength, he moved from the chill of the sea to the side of the lifeless mistress. She held the child in unyielding arms. A look of contentment graced her countenance. “You look as you did when you were a child,” the man said softly, choking on his tears. “Your child favors your husband, I believe,” he said, “he would be pleased. We did well, my Queen, we did well. May death bring you the peace you were so often denied in life.” Then he saw, lying next to the body of the mistress was Dein Endran, half buried in the white sand. How had it returned to him from the depths of the sea? He keenly remembered having lost it in the battle with the Dark. It was of no consequence; the return of the sword was the least of the miracles that came with dawn.
He stared into the blue eyes of the boy, and the boy stared back, beckoning. The man knelt and took his destiny from the arms of the dead mistress and held him in a loving embrace.