MIST MAIDEN©
By Robert Ipcar
In a future world reborn,
where mysterious winged sentinels patrol the night skies, Clerci—a young woman of nobility—flees from
an unwelcome betrothal into the arms of an invading army. That this
small force will serve to resist a far more sinister enemy bent on
subjugating humankind once and for all, soon becomes apparent
even to the young Prince who unwillingly commands these invaders.
Prodded by the Prince’s tutor, Old Madge, Clerci sets out to
discover how the ancient Sumerian hero, Ninurta,* defeated the Storm God, Zu—he
who seeks to regain the Tablets of Destiny. Then comes the unexpected revelation
of frightening powers beyond imagination, powers that those of her lineage once
commanded; powers that stand in the way of her success.
*Ancient cuneiform tablets
reveal that Ninurta defeated Zu, regaining the Tablets of Destiny on
behalf the Gods. How he accomplished this task is a mystery to this
day— that
particular tablet
still missing. It will be Clerci who finds out!
Prologue
The ancient tower glistened
beneath the driving rain, its portal now open to the elements. Yet neither
of the little people made move to seek shelter.
“Death they dealt; now victor and victim are one,” the Elder
purred in satisfaction, his shiny black eyes taking in the remnants of the
battered drawbridge. “Still that gate must be forever sealed
with rutile and fire. Should Humankind regain their hold on the world,
such weapons as are inside must forever be denied them.”
CHAPTER ONE
Clerci peered
through the beveled glass window that fronted the tower chamber,
her attention drawn to the emerald streaked tide that poured through
the crib-work causeway below—the
Whispering Isles' sole connection to the Vargel Peninsula. Though
the nighttime rains had long since dissipated, low scudding clouds
and early morning mists shrouded the ancient granite structure,
making it all but impossible to see what travelers, if any, rode
from the far shore.
Not hard to imagine herself shipwrecked...
Had it not been the hollow reverberation
of the fog bell that had first awaken her? Its monotonous toll carried none
of the joyous timbre of the clustered bronze chimes atop the Abbey’s
spires. The dull thud of its sheet metal clapper was more suited to the sound
of a war shield shaped across a smith’s anvil than any nautical warning!
While it was a voice best heeded by those who threaded the shoals surrounding
the Whispering Isles, she shuddered nonetheless, though the past eight of her
seventeen winters had been spent cloistered on these windswept rocks—testimony
to her determination to absorb the unique teachings entrusted to the Abbey’s
keepers.
Clerci drew back from the view, the sameness of the north light filling
her chamber all the more confining; its shadowless luminescence devoid
of any sparkle. The faint acrid odor of ash conspired to further
annoy her, though the damper on the wrought iron fireplace remained
locked firmly in the horizontal. As usual the Whispering Isles
would know nothing of the impending Summer Solstice; the chilled
ceaseless wind ever refusing to betray the surrounding season.
She turned to the oak paneled washstand...
That her image was not reflected in the
twin copper mirrors above the basin came as no surprise. A smoky haze was all
that could be discerned within the glass, a peculiarity of vision suffered
by the women of her mother’s line. Urrel’s Sight it was
called—that
no mirrored image be visible to the eye.
Yet there was a trick...
Clerci bent forward, adjusting the second
mirror to the first until her face materialized within the haze. This twice
reflected image—always-dark,
always a three quarter view—allowed
her to examined herself through self-critical eyes...
Her ebony hair had become unmanageable
over the winter, a chore to comb let alone wash; her once tanned complexion
approaching the pallor of a prisoner long chained in some subterranean dungeon.
Only her brown eyes were... acceptable... dark to the point of amber though
perhaps set too far apart. While they served to accent her frail beauty, the
disturbing likeness of her mother appeared whenever she chose to frown.
Nor was
she a Lady in dress…
Her tan leather trousers and forest green jerkin barely registered
in the darkened glass though her sleeveless undervest was clearly
visible at her neckline, its quilted folds serving to protect against
the Abbey’s chilled corridors. No regal princess here in this
chamber; her overall appearance that of a scullery maid dressed for
the hunt!
All the better to escape on horseback…
No matter that the sun chose to hide this day, this day of her departure!
Never would she miss this tiny room atop the Abbey’s northernmost
tower, nor the jug of cold wash water by her door every morning.
A five days’ ride would see her home once more, secure in the
evergreen foothills of the lands known as Windreach. This day she
would trade a dreary Vargel spring for the crystal clarity of a sunlit
Highland summer far from salt laden air.
She would spend her newfound freedom sleeping in late; indulge in
breakfast cakes and cream pastries; then canter through the green
meadows and tangled woodlands that lay beneath Lychtly Castle without
regard to studies. Best of all she would rejoice in the companionship
of friends her own age for Summerfest would be in full swing: afternoon
games of skill played beneath candy striped courtyard tents; spirited
evening dances held throughout the red roofed valley hamlets where
nightfires shot skyward, an ever-rain of fiery sparks pelting the
star fields overhead.
Or would her friends now regard her as a stranger?
With a sigh of despair Clerci skirted
the washstand bent on a new mission, her ankle length boots clicking
softly across the red and blue tiles of a mosaic compass—its
eight nautical points a magnetic charm against the mischievous spirits drawn
by the Abbey’s
nighttime beacon. She swept about the circular chamber, hastily gathering
her travel necessities; deliberately arranging them beside the red
leather saddle pack that rested at the foot of her bed.
Her personal treasures were few but sentimental, like the pair of
tiny black metal scissors, an unexpected gift thrust upon her by
the curly haired stable boy who cared for her pony during the winter.
She smiled as she brushed her fingers across a braided gold necklace,
taking satisfaction that the solitary black stone set within, still
resonated a reddish-orange glow at her touch. Always she felt like
a queen with this jewel at her throat, a gift from her Urrel grandmother
some five years past, marking her twelfth birthday. And one last
item, acquired here at the Abbey—only
this winter...
Something very special!
A green satin pouch no bigger than a handkerchief
lay beneath her hand, yet she hesitated to undo the flap. An enchanted
plumage lay within, more gossamer cloak than the skin of any living bird. In
a sense it was a magical garment to be donned by those who would fly free of
their worldly bodies, its cobweb threads spun of her own living tissue though
to this day she remained mystified as to how that could have taken place without
her knowledge. A falcon fell the Abbey’s Brotherhood
called it.
Yet one thing she knew to be true...
Its altered existence was somehow keyed
to the sentinels, the dark silent guardians who swept the
nighttides of Windreach on tireless wings; ever watchful sentries
who had patrolled the length and breadth of her father’s domain
for untold centuries. One winter more and she would secure the knowledge
to join them...
The chamber
door rattled in its hinges.
Clerci caught her breath.
A stray gust of wind perhaps?
The saga of Denyen’s Cove sprang
to mind, a telling often given within the Great Hall…
In with the tide there swept a mist
A dreadful grayness borne of the sea
A dreadful something that should not be…
She banished the remaining verses with
a shudder…
The Dark One no more than a tiresome
threat told by thoughtless nannies wanting time to themselves. Clerci
hastily swept her belongings into the saddle pack and cinched the
straps. Perhaps one of the Abbey’s Sisters stood outside ready to see her off. She yanked
the door open...
Nothing!
No one!
She dashed from the tower chamber without
so much as a backward glance and wound down the gloomy steps with
the haste of a pursued child. Elongated patches of light played across
the sparkling granite risers as she descended, a line of slender
archer ports providing the only illumination. Always she wondered
as to their design; decorative fancy perhaps or had they originally
served some practical warlike purpose? She reached the first landing
and hastily turned into the down flight of stairs leading to the
courtyard. A hand grabbed her arm, almost spinning her around...
“A moment, young lady!”
Brother Salii...
His voice ever recognizable though a heavy
brown cowl shadowed his face. His manner as always was condescending,
as if he resented the time expended on apprentices destined to fail.
Yet this next winter she would willingly suffer his petulance for
his unique sphere of discipline was that of keying, the
fusion between human and sentinel—that
point when the mind was induced from its physical body to acquire
wings of freedom...
“You’re leaving...”
An accusation, not a question...
Though she would someday owe this man
her powers of flight she hated his arrogance, not liking his direct
stare; his look making her uncomfortable in her standing as a young woman indebted.
She wanted to tear away, dash down the stairs to the courtyard below.
Still it was she who departed...
He would stay.
“Brother Salii. I wish you farewell...”
His fingers still gripped her.
“We must talk, Clerci. The Sisters
tell me you will not return next season; that you intend to continue your instruction
under the Warden at Lychtly Hall.” A wish she had carelessly
voiced aloud on more than one occasion…
Certainly the Wardenship of Windreach would be hers once the present
holder took it upon herself to vacate. Lillith was her name, a red
headed woman of twenty one who had most recently married a nobleman
over three times her age—an
Earl most anxious to leave an heir. Like herself Lillith was an Urrel though
admittedly from some obscure mountain clan. According to her grandmother
they were but simple country folk who were unduly obsessed with the
weather.
“I am a Urrel,” Clerci
insisted, finding the courage to protest at last. “I follow a calling
that will serve the protection of Windreach’s borders. Why
would I not complete my training here?”
Her voice sounded far from convincing...
“You’ve barely been aloft,” Brother
Salii scoffed, “under the guidance of Brother Timothy no less.
Yet unlike the others, he reports that you show great promise. But
now; now to take time off for some irrelevant summer festival? When
you are so close to completion? Do you not know the true nature of
the sentinel?”
Indeed her brief flight seemed no more than a drifting into disembodied
nothingness; her only touch with reality that of Brother Timothy’s
hand on hers as the miniature towers spun below in the mists. But
as to the true nature of the sentinels? There were arguments
still to this day!
The sentinels some insisted were clockwork hawks—intricate
mechanisms fashioned by troll-like
artisans from far across the Sea of Laments. Yet others equally asserted
that the sentinels were
flesh and blood but of a nature knowing no natural birth—evil
instruments of Northlands human sorcerers long since dead.
Those arguments little mattered now...
“Admittedly you are determined,” Brother
Salii went on. “Perhaps why we’ve always drawn Wardens
from the Urrel Valley;
from women said to be impervious to Dark-World suggestion.
Perhaps why the mirrored image masquerading as reality remains invisible
to those of your line.”
He abruptly released her arm, the hood
dropping back onto his shoulders. In actuality he was rather handsome,
perhaps in his mid-thirties, with light curly hair resembling her father’s.
But in his dark eyes lay a grayness, a flinty chill that warned of
an anger smoldering somewhere beneath.
“I’m sorry, Brother Salii...”
In reality she wasn’t...
He was a man who would have no real friends.
“There’s more for you here,” he
again urged in a hushed tone, looking about as if fearing to be overheard. “I
know you, Clerci. How long would you be content to be a Warden of
the sentinels,
suffer the sameness of nightly patrols? Of the all children sent
to our isle, the Urrel have proven the most adept; and the
most discontent.”
Discontent?
She couldn’t imagine such a thing.
Though she had only made that one hesitant flight, the matchless
sensation of circling the miniature landscape below had filled her with a sense
of independence. She had found a place where her elders could not follow.
Still he stared...
“I’ve your Brotherhood to
thank for my training,” she mumbled, at a loss for what else
to say. Her mother had dismissed the sentinels as a childhood
thing, to be joked about, then laid to rest. Her grandmother on the
other hand had been insistent that she come to the Abbey.
“Think of it, Clerci...” Again
Brother Salii glanced over his shoulder. “I offer you a chance to join
the immortals, join with the One who seeks the power to guide man’s
destiny. Would you be content to remain at the mercy of fate; drift
lifelessly through your given days; have no more power over your
existence than a leaf floating down a mountain stream? As I was chosen,
so shall you. What more could you want?”
What more could she want? Just now, to dash down the stairs!
“I’ll return at summer’s
end,” she offered, drawing back. She would tell him anything to make
her escape. “I owe you so much.”
Brother Salii’s face flushed scarlet.
“Return? That’s not your present
intent!”
“No, I...”
“They who cast the future see your
face above the Whispering Isles...”
“No!”
Clerci dashed to the stairs, unmindful
of his anger, and flung herself toward the daylight below. For one
single moment a shadow loomed on the wall ahead of her, an open jawed beast
about to spring. Then it was gone... a darkness of her own making? She had
no desire to look over her shoulder.
Her heart pounded with each step.
“Clerci! Such a rush!”
Sister Myrrh hastily backed from the entranceway
as Clerci bounded into the courtyard, a lacquered tray with teapot
and muffins barely floating out of harm’s way. Though the Sister’s
gray hood was severely arranged at her hairline, red and white piping
along the pockets of her habit betrayed a playful disregard for the
sanctity of her position.
Myrrh she trusted…
Had not the Sisters always been patient,
gently lacing her intellect with the intricacies of music and literature
to be found in the harmonic rings, the haunting voices of mankind’s
lost past which had been entrusted to the Order’s keeping?
“Do you think I would have left
without saying goodbye?” Clerci gasped, stopping short on the
wet cobblestones. She was unable to bring herself to mention Brother
Salii, her mind a jumble of self-accusation. What could she have
possibly done to attract his interest?
“Ride off you would!” the
older woman grumbled, her blue eyes dancing with a humor belying her words. “You’re
so impatient, Clerci. When you reach my age, you’ll discover
that life passes by far too quickly.”
“Oh, Myr,” Clerci retorted,
Brother Salii now forgotten, “My father’s always saying the same
thing. It’s his excuse to busy himself with some new project all the
time. Even now he’s expanding the walls around Lychtly Hall.
In a fortnight he will turn forty.”
“And I shall attend his celebration,
my dear,” the Sister declared. “What a gala it will be with all
Windreach invited. And not just for Lord Lychtly’s birthday,
but that we might all share in the joy of your betrothal.”
Clerci’s heart fell...
Her envisioned summer evaporated like
tea flung into the hearth. It was as if the mists overhead had cracked
asunder with the darkest of lighting. She wanted to turn, flee back up the
steps to the security of her little room. Brother Salii would be waiting...
She was trapped!
How could they? How dare her mother promise
her to some stranger without consulting her first? Not now!
“Clerci?” Sister Myrrh looked
to her questioningly, the tray of tea and muffins forgotten. “Have I
said something wrong, Child? Didn’t... Hasn’t anyone
told you?”
“Of course, Sister...”
How on earth would she have heard anything,
trapped for a winter within the Abbey’s walls? Betrothal to
whom? Suggested suitors rolled through her mind like a scroll gone
mad. Old Commander Asha had always joked with her father that he
would ask for her hand. Her mother, she knew, preferred the sons
of visiting dignitaries from far off lands—posturing
youths whose slurred accents rendered them barely understandable.
Her aunt Sonya, rightly so, regarded them as uncultured foreigners,
unsuited for a daughter of northern nobility. Her aunt Sonya, she
recalled, favored...
Clerci gasped in recollection.
Her imbecile first cousin, Tam Toshup!
Like his name, a fat lump of a tomato with a complexion as ruddy
to boot! He was at least twenty-five! It would mean the end of her life! She
would flee home first!
“Clerci?”
Somehow she must make a new life for herself...
She would become a wayward bard: wander
the very soil where heroes once took their stand; extract shadowy
tales still etched in the aura of battles long fought; sing of lovers pursued;
of the dreams of migrating peoples. She would perform for her lodging whether
it be some rough planked inns or gold satin sheets...
“Clerci, dear...”
There was a clatter of hooves as a rider
entered the far end of the arched pass-through leading into the courtyard.
Not one second too soon! She prayed that it would be her Schalian
escort, Hasche, her assigned guardian whenever she found herself on the trail.
Accompanying him would be her golden Highlands pony, her beloved Scepter. She
knew what she had to do…
“Forgive me, Clerci.” Sister
Myrrh’s eyes filled with tears. “I love you, truly I
do.”
Clerci moved to embrace the older woman,
allowing the saddle pack to slip from her shoulder. She was conscience
of her own tears. Was it for this loving Sister... or herself?
“Let me wrap these muffins for your
trip, Child; my small way of making amends.”
Clerci could only gulp, reaching down
for her fallen possessions, not knowing what more to say. Sister
Myrrh knelt beside her, unmindful of the wet paving stones that soaked her habit.
As she expertly folded a cloth napkin over the contents of the tray, she looked
up, smiling, gently reaching out to grasp Clerci’s hand...
“I’ll miss you, my child.
Think of me often.”
“But I’ll be back... at summer’s end!” What was the
matter with Myrrh? “The Whispering Isles are only five day’s
ride from Lychtly Hall.”
“You’ll a life of your own
from now on, Child. Take what you’ve learned and use it for the good
of mankind. There is a darkness not of the storms that has begun to sweep about
these waters. You’ve an independent nature that needs to be
nourished, not enticed by those who dream of ruination. Better you
keep this place a memory.”
Was her impending betrothal any better?
Was this to be the end of her dreams?
Just as quickly the Sister’s eyes suffused with warmth.
“Remember,
my dear, beware those who would tamper with destiny. The master plan
for the Cosmos must be protected at all costs.”
“But Brother Salii...”
“Trust in me, Child. Believe in
yourself. As long as you remember that, you will have the power to
choose your own fortune.”
Clerci turned to the courtyard...
Her escort awaited, his features as always
fixed in a perpetual scowl. Her highlands pony snorted his own brief
acknowledgement before bowing his head sleepily, perhaps hoping for a quick
snooze before heading back over the causeway. She would have hugged them both
had her mind not been a jumble of desperate thoughts. Choose her own fortune,
Myrrh had assured her? Only this morning, she would have said the same.
Now her betrothal would ruin everything...
