The Ashen Crown - Prologue

Author's Note: This is the prologue for a fantasy novel I've been gathering the courage to write for over a year now. Thank you so much for taking the time to read it! If it generates enough interest, I'd like to post the other installments here as I finish them. So please leave a like and/or comment if you enjoyed this. ________________________________________________

The sound of drums thrummed through the Goldswood like a pulse— low and measured in the midnight silence.

In his long tenure as Warden, Selmor had only heard them once before. They had filled him with unease then, too. The difference now was that they were weighted with meaning. The sort of meaning he understood. And that made them all the more troubling.

“My Lord.”

Emris’ address was uncharacteristically breathless as the young attendant swept out on to the open balcony to stand alongside his superior, wringing his hands. It had been his unfailing composure and the extent of his self-discipline that had seen him elevated to his position so rapidly. To have him abandon protocol and struggle to compose himself now only served to reinforce the gravity of the situation.

“Has there been any word from the watchtower?”

“Nothing yet, my Lord.”

Selmor sucked absently on the stem on his pipe with a low hum and returned his attention to the tangle of gold-veined shadowwood trees and their spray of pale, gleaming leaves. Then to the silvery waterfalls that spilled into the valley beyond them.

The hazy glow of lanternlight had begun to flicker to life within the apartments adjacent to his own, and he knew it wouldn’t be long before the whole of the outpost was alive, anxiously awaiting answers.

As of yet, he had none to give them.

“An invasion?” Emris posed the question with such reluctance it was as though he were afraid that he might will the worrying theory into reality simply by breathing life into the words.

“Unlikely,” Selmor replied. “The terrain here is famously unnavigable for outsiders, and we have the sharpest eyes and swiftest feet among our scouts. Nothing could have approached the outer perimeter without our knowing well in advance.”

He paused long enough to take another deep pull from his pipe, held the fragrant smoke in his mouth, then released it on a long, practiced exhale.

“The fact that we haven’t yet received word means the runners have been instructed to wait. I’m left to assume that negotiations are underway.”

“Negotiations?” Emris repeated, brow creased as he pressed his lips into a single, severe line. Suspicion sharpened his boyish features and, for perhaps the first time, Selmor was forced to acknowledge just how young Emris really was. And how gray and bone-weary he suddenly felt alongside him.

“Summon the councilors. Have them assemble in the grand chamber immediately. Should you encounter any residents outside of their rooms, advise them to return there and wait until they receive further instruction. Reassure them it is merely a precaution. Not cause for concern.” He paused long enough to level the younger man with steely eyes. “Dismissed.”

“Yes. At once, Lord Warden.”

The doors groaned shut with his attendant’s hasty departure. Only then did Selmor allow himself a moment to discard the air of rigid authority his rank so often demanded, lifting a hand to drag it slowly over his weathered face.

With nothing but Eryndor’s inhospitable tundra and tribes of ice giants to the north, the tangle of fey-infested wilds to the south and the Vaesirian people’s vicious intolerance of outsiders to the east, it should have been an impossible feat for a group of limited manpower to have found their way to the Goldswood unscathed. The trek through the valley itself was an undertaking few were equipped to make, and would have taken over a fortnight to accomplish. Unless they were freshly resupplied and bore the talents of both highly skilled navigators and soldiers, it beggared belief that they should have made it alive at all.

Without further delay, he retreated back inside and gently deposited the still-smoking pipe upon an enameled glass dish flecked with ash.

He knew the rest of the council would waste little time once Emris relayed his message. In fact, he’d have been surprised were they not already on the move. They would understand the significance of an unexpected visitor as well as he did.

There was no outward indication of Selmor’s growing unease or sense of urgency as he took the airy halls in long, uniform strides. Even flanked by an entourage of armored soldiers, the Warden stood tall, straight-backed and more formidable than them all.

Most of the outpost’s residents had followed the instructions given to them and obediently returned to their chambers, but a willful few were bold enough to step outside again at the sound of his approach to demand answers. Those demands withered in the face of his severity, however, and with a single look he watched as they inevitably retreated in quiet resignation.

He was not a man who took his responsibilities as Warden lightly, and was well aware of the reputation he had garnered for his severe leadership. The Goldswood had remained under his command for over a century - the longest known tenure of any Warden before him - and had flourished in that time. His reputation, therefore, seemed a negligible thing in comparison to the results his methods produced.

“Lord Warden.” Emris appeared in the corridor ahead, looking more agitated than he had earlier. “The council awaits.”

But they did not wait quietly.

He could hear them arguing amongst themselves from where he stood outside of the chamber’s heavy, embossed doors. The dark wood had been salvaged from the shadowwood trees that were native to the valley, and bore the elaborate engravings of master woodcarvers— beautifully rendered portraits of Wardens past, painstakingly carved by a masterful hand and painted in lustrous strokes of gold and silver that shone with an otherworldly luminosity untouched by the ages. He’d wondered more than once if it was meant to match the natural veins of gold that ran through the grain of the wood itself. Those portraits always instilled in him a swell of pride and inexplicable sense of duty that reinforced his resolve. And they did not fail him now.

The room fell silent with his arrival, and the men gathered in the gallery bowed their heads in perfect unison.

Inside, the grand chamber was an architectural marvel. A spectacle of sprawling staircases, gilded archways and several levels of tiered seating that rose above the receiving hall far below. Overhead, the ceiling was a dome of tempered glass, offering an unobstructed view of the night sky. Decades earlier, it had been fitted with a sophisticated mechanical system that was used to draw across heavy velvet curtains during the summer season, when the oppressive heat of the sun became too unbearable for those gathered within. On occasion, however, those curtains would remain open during a trial. The intention had been for the scorching heat - focused directly upon the accused for hours - to spur them into a desperate, frenzied confession. Or otherwise coax incriminating information from them in the midst of their discomfort.

“The drums have ceased and still we’ve yet to receive word from the runners. Without any developments and the forest now silent, I believe we can assume those stationed along the perimeter have been detained.” Corven was the first to speak. As the Warden’s right hand, it was fitting he should take the initiative. The others knew to respect rank enough to offer him the courtesy of their rapt attention, though Selmor noticed some fidgeting beneath their robes, anxious to voice their own concerns.

He loosed a heavy sigh as he reached the staircase’s final landing and seated himself above the others, with Emris taking his place behind him.

All thirteen councilmen were dressed in ceremonial garb. Robes of fine black silk and golden thread with long, heavy sleeves and the insignia of the Aurum Tredecim embroidered across the left breast. Only Selmor himself bore the ornate pin that designated him as Lord Warden, and it seemed to grow heavier still with each passing year.

“Impossible,” one of the other men interjected, and Selmor turned his attention to Arystan. The youngest of the council was as well known for his arrogance as he was for his sharp mind. “Even if we were to assume the worst, a company of over a hundred men would be incapable of overwhelming our defensive lines before the runners were dispatched. We have specially trained soldiers in the vanguard who could navigate the Goldswood blind, and the fastest men on foot. In addition, the watchtower’s vantage point makes it near impossible to move through the valley undetected.”

Another of the councilmen nodded his agreement, but the scarred, partially-blind Jalen that sat beside him looked unconvinced. “A hundred trained soldiers might have little success, but two or three Vipers could quickly turn the odds in their favor.”

“Vaesiria would not send their assassins to infiltrate the Goldswood.” Selmor’s voice drew a palpable silence from the group. “They have nothing to gain from attacking a small western settlement and are much too paranoid to send their most lethal force such a considerable distance away. Their fear of vulnerability fuels their isolation as much as their prejudice.”

Jalen frowned thoughtfully. “But the prisoner—” All eyes turned on him at once. “Was it not discovered he himself hails from the east? If he has any affiliation with the Vipers, I have no doubt they would make every effort to reclaim him.”

Selmor’s reply, however, was cut short by a thunderous crack as the chamber’s entrance doors suddenly flew open.

Most of the council rose immediately to their feet, shouting startled instructions to the handful of guards who had already begun to move in. Selmor himself remained seated, and narrowed his eyes at the sight of two solitary figures as they emerged into the chamber below.

They were both cloaked, their features obscured by wide, woolen hoods that looked heavy and well-worn. Though surrounded, their movements appeared lazy. Unconcerned. And the spears brandished at them did little to dissuade their slow advance. Even more surprising still, the guards seemed to revert to the defensive, taking small steps in retreat despite having their weapons raised and the advantage of sheer numbers.

Only when the pair had reached the center of the floor did they slow to a halt, and Selmor raised one hand in a silent command for his men to stand down.

“You are free to search us.” A woman’s voice. The sound was soft and melodic, and was coloured by an accent he knew but couldn’t quite place. More notably still, there was no discernable hostility in the words. Only tepid acknowledgment.

With Selmor’s approval, several men approached the cloaked figures and proceeded to pat them down, allowing him a moment to gather his thoughts and instruct the rest of the council to return to their seats. In spite of his efforts, however, Arystan remained standing.

“Where are the rest of your men?” he demanded furiously.

The woman turned to her companion in silence, then back to the council. “We come alone and unarmed.”

Arystan scoffed incredulously, but the soldiers below confirmed the claim with astonished nods.

“You expect us to believe,” he hissed through clenched teeth, “that two individuals, unarmed no less, not only evaded the surveillance of twenty specially trained scouts and potentially murdered scores of experienced soldiers, but arrived in an outpost that hasn’t been breached in over a thousand years, unharmed?”

“Your men are alive. Of that, I give you my word.”

Selmor’s voice cut through Arystan’s as effortlessly as a sharpened blade through aged parchment.

“And whose word is it that I should be accepting so freely?”

All at once the woman stepped forward, met again with the glittering points of a dozen spears. Again, she ignored them, and slowly drew back her hood.

Hair like starlight. Skin kissed by a southern sun. The peculiar inflection in her voice. They were curiosities shared only by those of the Summer Isles, and virtually unseen in the west. He recognized them from the historical texts of his youth he would sometimes pore over by candlelight, when his thoughts had refused to allow him the luxury of rest. It were her eyes, however, that gave him pause.

Even in the surrounding gloom they bore the same luminosity as the engravings he’d admired on the chamber doors. Only now it was an impossible alloy of blue and green that couldn’t seem to remain still, ever-swirling about dark pupils ringed by molten gold. He found himself reminded of the way sunlight looked when it reached the ocean floor, shimmering beneath clear turquoise water.

And he couldn’t begin to fathom how something so beautiful could possess so much rage.

“Selmor Avenell.” Her voice had turned to ice, and those inhuman eyes caught and held his. They seemed to darken with unspoken warning. “I believe you’re keeping a friend of mine. I’m here to demand his release.”

Arystan’s snarl of impatience was sobering. "What is your name, girl?”

“Sereia Velanor.”

Selmor’s blood ran cold, all too aware of the collective intake of breath from the men that stood, stunned, below him. Of the way the entirety of the chamber was suddenly plunged into disbelieving silence. Of the slow, insidious smile he could just make out from the still-hooded figure that stood behind her, unfazed.

“My Lord? Who exactly is this woman?” He felt the brush of Emris’ sleeve as his attendant stepped forward.

“She,” Selmor breathed, “Is the most dangerous creature in living memory.”