Tidal Fates (eBook)

Calling

T. Usle (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2024 | 1. Auflage
392 Seiten
Bookbaby (Verlag)
979-8-3509-2944-7 (ISBN)

Infos

A brother and sister embarking on a treacherous voyage. A court torn between duty and dereliction. A merchant ship traversing the sea dividing an already divided empire.

Born and raised in Sierra Madre, California, Tom Usle currently resides in the greater Chicago area where he serves as an employee of Students for Life of America. A reader by hobby and an author by passion, Mr. Usle enjoys those simple pleasures of life, chief among them the company of good friends and family relations.

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As siblings Ira and Esther strive to escape from a dark past, a court of governors and an elven ruler navigate those tensions brewing across the Haurthian Empire. In this first installment of the Tidal Fates trilogy, the crew of the Wayfarer finds itself unwittingly caught in the midst of a conflict between the two mainlands, the kind that can only be settled by peace or civil war.

Textauszug

CHAPTER TWO

THE TEMPLE OF ÉROSAI

Across the Bridging Sea in the land of dawn, a flood of brilliant orange crept from the sea’s edge and into the sky. The Realm of Haurth met the young day as the dazzling sunlight rippled across the briny waters. The ocean view was set between two jagged mountains encircling a vast jade meadow. The peaks began abruptly at the shore and rose like naturally carved walls surrounding the valley below. The northern and southern mounts stretched for leagues until, at last, they met in the west, becoming one crescent range behind a glorious city of stone.

The rigid masonry of the city was composed of magnanimous slabs of granite. Their color resembled a blue sky hardly visible behind a patch of gray clouds. Paved lanes rose slenderly with the gradual incline of the mountain’s foundation. Along the streets were shops and abodes uniform in make and majesty, and a bell tower jutted high enough to be seen from the winding roads below. One edifice had a perfect view from the main streets of the Hallowed City to the watery horizon in the east. The Temple of Érosai glistened in splendid grandeur. Pillars of pale marble with cascading emerald veins rose high for all the city to see. A towering archway faced the plaza, set many steps below. No roof or cover was erected over the temple, and the last specks of starlight could be seen from within as the day gave them chase. In those spaces between each pillar stood grand statues of pure white marble. Taller than life, the stony figures faced the temple courtyard, each with a small fire at its base and a thurible burning incense. The courtyard was of the same stone as the statues but with golden patterns etched far across. At the center of the ornate floor was an elongated star with four points, and behind it was a pale, vacant throne facing to the east.

Up the steps from the plaza and through the archway, there came a man striding into the temple. He bid the blue-clad temple sentries a good morning as his sandals clapped against the cool stone and echoed throughout the empty place. Under his traveling cloak, he wore elegant white robes with a royal blue sash tied about his waist. His ashen hair was finely braided, and his olive face was shaved clean. In one of his thin hands was a letter heavily creased from the man’s tightened grip. Another pair of footsteps, softer and quicker, sounded from the temple’s rear. Emerging from behind the throne, a young man, barefoot and wearing a plain blue tunic, approached.

“A table and chairs, please,” said the ashen-haired man as he removed his cloak and handed it to the servant, “and some wine.”

The servant bowed and scuttled off to fetch the requests. The man stood in the quiet courtyard, tapping the letter anxiously upon his side. On one of the fingers clenching the letter, he wore a silver ring with the crest of a horned creature upon it. When the young man returned, he was accompanied by other servants carrying a fine mahogany table and chairs. The finely clad man seated himself with a heavy sigh as an ornamental jug filled with crimson wine was set upon the table along with seven silver goblets. Pouring into the nearest one, the man dismissed the servants absentmindedly as he sipped and stared up at the vanishing twilight sky. Faint voices of early risers going about their day could be heard from the streets. Despite the city’s dense population, there was never as much rush in the streets as one might typically expect from the ports. In Eou Verás, any sort of hurry was ill-favored. Established more than a millennium ago, the Hallowed City carried an air of peace and tranquility that all citizens of the Haurthian Empire respected deeply.

The ashen-haired man was about to refill his goblet when another figure passed through the archway and into the courtyard. The dwarf had a long, straight beard and hair, and the color of his robes and cloak were akin to the man’s. While the race of men shaved their faces as an outward sign of their authority, having one’s hair cut in the Westlands was a great punishment and shame amongst the elves and dwarves. The finely clad dwarf nodded politely to the man before tossing his cloak to the young servant. After seeing the lone jug of wine, he called after the young man to bring some food and another jug of wine for the table.

“How was the theater, Doracaen?” asked the ashen-haired man between sips of his goblet.

“You were wise not to show,” groaned the dwarf, seating himself across the table from the man. “The Thieving Band of Hesed was an utter bore. Indeed, I might have left sooner had they not seated us in the royal box. We could not escape unnoticed.” When the servant brought a platter of grapes, figs, pomegranates, and pears, Doracaen began to pile an assortment onto a plate. “But tell me, Anthazar, why were you absent last night? The wife and I were expecting you.”

“Forgive me,” said Anthazar. “I did mean to show, but I was otherwise preoccupied.” His eyes fixed on something in the distance, though he could not tell what it was.

“Not to worry, there will be another show this evening,” mumbled Doracaen through a mouthful of fruit. “You can honor the citizens with your presence then, but do not say I never warned you.” As the dwarf chuckled, he took notice of the letter grasped in Anthazar’s palm. Doracaen opened his mouth, either to speak or to take another bite of pomegranate, but was distracted by the appearance of two more men in the courtyard. One had a stoic expression carved upon his sallow face, and the other was rather scrawny beneath his fine robes. The new arrivals joined the table, soon followed by a dwarf with pearly hair and an extremely portly man. Only one seat remained vacant at the head of the table. As the pearly-haired dwarf and the scrawny man began to chatter animatedly about their favorites for the Race of Itherios, Anthazar spotted Doracaen gazing at him between bites of pear. He looked down at his hand on the table, the creased letter tapping rhythmically against the mahogany. At once, he ceased his tapping and laid the letter to rest on his lap.

The discussion of charioteers and their steeds was hushed by several footsteps marching from the rear of the temple. Half a dozen temple sentries clad in royal blue tunics, shining iron armor, and glimmering helmets entered the courtyard armed with spears in hand and short gladiuses by their sides. The elves stationed themselves around the table as the governors rose. From the garden, behind the polished pillars, came a tall figure. He was dressed in regal sapphire robes and a white sash, diametric to the threads of his companions around the table. His appearance was most likened to the men’s, though the elf was of a paler complexion with longer features in face and stature. His hair cascaded behind his pointed ears down to his waist, the locks glistening the same shade as the polished mahogany table set before him. As windless as the courtyard was, the elf’s hair flowed gracefully and in unison with his elegant robes. His years were apparent, yet his skin remained unblemished. A belt around his waist held a sheathed gladius quite different from those of the sentries. The elf’s long-fingered hand rested upon its hilt with gold etchings akin to the marble floor’s. A midnight gem the size of a walnut was set into the sword’s hilt. This dark jewel was the only part of the gladius that did not shimmer in the morning sun’s rays. As the elf approached the table, each servant in the courtyard bowed low and did not stand upright until he had passed them by.

“Good morning, governors,” bid the elf with a bow to the men and dwarves around the table. “Shall we resume where we left off yesterday?” The table murmured their agreement, and they took their seats once more. “Very well, then. Governor Héribon, have you any news from the Magistrate of Knoll?”

“Yes, premier,” answered the scrawny governor. “I had a letter from the magistrate last night. The Provincial Guard of Héribon has found no less than sixty homes in the port with one or more residents showing symptoms of pestilence. The magistrate has also dispatched some enlisted men to those remote parts of the province, but they have yet to report their findings.”

“It is enough to go on for the time being,” said the premier. “So, accounting for the other provinces and their numbers, we are looking at several hundred dwellings in the Eastlands suffering from this new plague. Medicine will have to be delivered, and there is presently not enough to send to the ports. Fortunately, the fields beyond Deucar will be in full bloom once this primaveral season is behind us; no later than early May, I would venture. At that time, the flowers’ remedial oils may be procured and dispatched at once to the Eastern ports. Are we all in agreement?”

Each of the governors nodded their assent.

“This will, of course,” said the portly governor, “mean levying another tax to cover the cost of labor and shipment.”

“Governor Moleu is correct,” remarked the premier. “I dare say four denarii a head will sufficiently cover the cost.”

“That will be rather steep for a home with many mouths to feed,” suggested Doracaen concernedly.

“The cost of silver will hardly weigh greater than the lives of ailing children,” uttered the sallow-faced...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 10.1.2024
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur
• ISBN-13: 979-8-3509-2944-7 / 9798350929447