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The Wistful SagaThe blood came from the nose first. It was a thick, dark rivulet that cut a path down my lip, staining the white wool of my collar before I even realized I had stopped breathing. I was standing in the King’s Hall, a cavernous space of vaulted stone and hanging tapestries, and the air smelled of beeswax and old sweat. I am a man of simple habits, a weaver of cloth for the gentry, and I do not...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded QuadrantThe mist clung to the valley like a shroud of wet wool. It was cold. The kind of cold that settles in the marrow. I walked. My boots crunched on the gravel path. The path wound upward. It led to the citadel. The stone walls rose high. They were black against the grey sky. I was not supposed to be here. I was an outsider. A stranger. But I had to see him. I had to speak to the King. He was the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant WoundThe iron gate was locked. It had been locked for three days. Or perhaps longer. Time had lost its texture in the cellar of the Keep. It was a place where the air tasted of damp stone and old iron. It smelled of sweat and fear. Elias sat on the cold floor. His back was against the wall. He held his hands in his lap. They were steady. They were always steady. This was the one thing the Corps had...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant TempleThe banquet hall smelled of roasted pheasant and stale lavender. It was a heavy scent. It clung to the velvet drapes. It settled in the hair. Silas Vance stood near the pillar. He held a glass of white wine. The liquid trembled. His hand did not shake. Only the wine moved. Around him, the courtiers laughed. They wore masks of gold leaf. The masks were thin. They reflected the chandelier light....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden ScarThe scar runs from your left ear to the corner of your jaw, a jagged white line that looks less like a wound and more like a crack in a porcelain plate. You have stopped trying to hide it with makeup or high collars. In the grey, rain-slicked streets of the city, where the air tastes of ozone and old copper, the scar is the only thing that is truly yours. It is a mark of the transformation, the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant GardenThe rain fell in sheets of grey iron. You stood at the edge of the precipice, your cloak heavy with water, your sword unsheathed but unused. The wind tore at your hair, cold and biting, like the hands of the dead. You were leaving. There was no other word for it. You were leaving the city of Ashworth, leaving the stone keep that had been your home for a decade, leaving the rank that had defined...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant Cartograph"You are holding the map upside down," said the High Cartographer, his voice a dry leaf skittering across the stone floor, "and you are staining the vellum with your unwashed hands, you little animal." I did not look up from the parchment, for to look up was to acknowledge the authority of the room, the towering spires of the Royal Observatory that pierced the grey sky outside the leaded glass,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale ExileThe fog in Blackwood Hollow did not roll in so much as it seeped, a cold, grey liquid that filled the lungs before it touched the skin. Margaret Holloway stood at the window of the second-floor room in the boarding house on Ashworth Street, watching the streetlamps sputter and die one by one as the dampness swallowed the gaslight. Her left hand, wrapped in a thick layer of white linen, rested...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant ClueThe wool coat had belonged to Arthur, and Arthur had belonged to the mill, and the mill had belonged to the town of Calder, and the town had belonged to a time that was now, in the parlance of the new inspectors from London, obsolete. Silas Vane stood before the mirror in the cramped back room of the textile works, smoothing the lapel of the greatcoat. It was a heavy thing, dark blue and stiff...0 Comments 0 Shares 5 Views 0 Reviews
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