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The Distant TempleThe feast was loud. It was wet. It smelled of boiled pork and stale ale. I sat at the head of the long oak table. My hands shook. I hid them under the tablecloth. The cloth was rough. It scraped my palms. I loved the scrape. It reminded me I was here. "Master Alden," said the steward. He stood tall. His face was pale. His eyes were cold. "The quota is met. The King is pleased." I nodded. I...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant ThresholdThe stone was cold. It bit into my knuckles. I knelt in the nave. Dust motes danced in the shaft of grey light. I was old. My joints screamed. The abbey floor was slick with damp. I had come to find the truth. Or perhaps to confirm it. The bell tolled. One. Two. Three. The sound vibrated in my teeth. It was a low, mournful note. It spoke of death. It spoke of time. I was Thomas. I was the...0 Comments 0 Shares 5 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale ExileThe rain had been falling for three days, a cold, persistent sheet that turned the gravel of the coastal road into a slick, grey mirror, and it was in this wet, breathing landscape that I left my husband for the last time. We stood by the open trunk of our sedan, the engine ticking in the silence, and I watched the mist curl around the tires like smoke from a dying fire. David looked at me with...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden QuestYou step off the train at a station that smells of rust and wet wool. The air is cold. It bites at your lungs. You are holding a small, worn leather bag. Inside it is a single book. It is your mother’s book. The spine is cracked. The pages are soft as skin. You have carried it for six years. Six years of trains. Six years of silence. The house is waiting for you. It sits on a hill above the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded RootThe mortar round hit the window of the safe house not with the dramatic thunder I had anticipated in my training, but with a soft, wet thud, like a ripe fruit falling from a high branch and bursting against the pavement, a sound that was almost intimate in its finality, leaving behind a lattice of shattered glass and a smell that was not quite smoke, not quite dust, but something older,...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant WhispersThe sword was heavy, a thing of cold iron and older, darker weight, and it bit into the air with a sound like a tearing cloth. Thomas Bradshaw did not think about the weight. He did not think about the sweat that stung the cut above his eyebrow or the way the dampness of the cellar clung to his tunic, making the wool feel like a second, suffocating skin. He only thought of the rhythm. Left,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale VerdictThe stone in your hand is not a stone, or at least it has ceased to be merely a stone, having been polished by the relentless, invisible friction of your own anxiety into something that feels less like geology and more like a dense, cold tear frozen in amber. You are seven years old, and you are standing in the shadow of the great elms that line the processional way of St. Jude’s, a town so old...0 Comments 0 Shares 4 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded RoadThe coat hung by the door. It was gray. Wool. Heavy. It had been there for ten years. Elias saw it every morning. He did not touch it. He walked past it. The hallway was narrow. Light came in thin strips. Dust motes danced in the beams. They moved slow. They moved steady. Elias was old. His hands shook. He held his tea cup with both hands. The steam rose. It curled. It vanished. He was a...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant CrownThe fog did not lift. It settled. Elias stood at the edge of the terrace. The stone was cold. It bit into his boots. The air smelled of wet iron and old blood. He watched the mist swirl around the pillars. They were white. They were slick. They looked like bones. He was the Keeper. That was the title. It sounded heavy. It sounded final. He had held it for forty years. He had kept the Crown. Or...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
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