Prologue - Lost
Long ago, when flesh yet crept in the shadow of the divine, there was a precious land called Fior.
It was a place of great, haughty men who'd rather fight and die than surrender it to wayward kings. Mist always clung to the jagged, shaggy-green cliffs of it like a coat, and the frigid ocean always gnawed at black basalt shores.
Now just across the way, nestled cozily on the rolling hillside, the night kept as any other for Eleanor.
Her pale hands had shorn her sheep and gathered their coats into mounds all afternoon. They would soon be woven into yarn to sell at the local market. That was a task for tomorrow. For now, she had prepared a fire for supper.
Banging at her front door disturbed the night. The suddeness startled her. Eleanor never had visitors this late.
She stood when the banging came again, quicker this time.
She grabbed a knife from the kitchen, wielding it firmly. “I'll have no jesting at this hour. You best return from whence you came,” she warned.
Heavy breathing came. “Please...” said a feminine voice, her accent entirely astranged from Eleanor's. “I am in agony.”
Eleanor kept her guard raised as she approached the door and opened it, hardly anytime to move as a dark-skinned woman collapsed at the threshold.
The knife fell to the wooden floorboards.
Eleanor was astonished.
“A Devarian woman. How—”
“Your people stole me—I swam for my life, but I—ah!” she cried, bowing her head. The woman crawled to Eleanor, clutching the helm of her dress in her fingers. Eleanor tried to back away. The women refused to release her. “I need you—” She doubled over and the most gruesome scream Eleanor had ever heard left her mouth. “Please. My baby is coming.”
She was not lying. Her belly was heavily swollen.
Eleanor owed her nothing. She could toss her out right now and not be at fault. After all, their kingdoms were at war.
And still, she could not get past the rawness in the woman's round, brown eyes. The kind where hope was but a dying flame, ready to be snuffed.
Eleanor squared her shoulders. She made haste, dragging the woman inside her home and slamming the door shut.
“On your back,” she commanded, rushing to her night chambers. She snatched the closest bundle of cloth from her bed, forceps for trimming herbs, then a pail of water she had drawn for her bath after supper. Droplets splashed about as she hurried back to the wailing woman.
She tied her fawn hair back with twine then hiked up the woman's dress above the knees. She was covered in blood from thighs to legs. The baby had breached—feet first. The sight did not turn Eleanor away. She'd delivered far too many ewes to recall.
“Nearly there,” she said. “Nearly there—push.”
She screamed, banging her fist on the floor, pushing.
“She's coming. One more push!”
Her final cry mingled with sweeter ones of new life.
Eleanor was caught between elation and exasperation, her arms now filled with a squirming infant.
“My Lord...” she mumbled, her mouth taken with joyous laughter. “She is beautiful.” And her tears sprung. “Madame, she is beautiful and strong.”
There was no response.
One look and Eleanor knew the familiarity of vacantness.
Her heart had given up the ghost.
Eleanor didn't know what to say or do, staring at the crying child, wet from her mother's blood. Her legs gave way from under her. She sat on the floor, the baby feeling heavier.
“Oh, God... Who am I to shield her? Me? A lowly widow. I have no family. No children.”
She gazed down at her again. In Eleanor's arms, the wee baby lay swaddled, her tiny chest rising and falling; and lo, as a soft hiccup came from rosebud lips, and those limpid eyes—wide as her mother's—gazed back with innocent trust, a protectiveness bloomed within her breast.
Eleanor sniffled, wiping her eyes. She slowed her beating heart as she began to rock the child. “I will try to do right by her, Madame.”
She reached over and took hold of the awaiting forceps. “May the mercy of our Father guide you home.”
She snipped the umbilical cord tying them together.
* * *
King Fergus sat upon his throne, a man both feared and, in a strange way, revered. His form bore the mark of excess: flesh pressed against gold-thread robes, his hands bejeweled and round, his body fat like a sack of apples.
His hair, sparse and shriveled though he saw scarcely thirty, clung to his temples like wilted straw. Despite that grotesque appearance—those small eyes set deep, that sweaty sheen upon his cheeks—there was no denying the power he held over every room.
Every soul who looked upon him walked willingly on pins and needles, for from the first day of his reign he had kept the kingdom safe, and his word, however cruelly spoken, had never been empty. He was both protector and warning.
His head commander stood at his right side, Sir Edgar Dubois.
He was tall and comely as a golden statue wrought by some cunning artisan, his locks of faded gold framing a visage fair to behold, carried by eyes of blue.
He snapped his fingers. “Show The King his new spoils.”
At once, a great chest was put before King Fergus, overflowing in golden treasure. Coins, necklaces, chalices, and trinkets. The king got to his knees, digging his hands through the cavity. He grinned wide as the gold spilled from his grubby fingers.
“Gorgeous,” he noted low. “Is that all of it, Captain?” he questioned, kissing a coin.
“For now. Our defenses are holding fast in Devarian territory. They are small and mighty kingdom, but even they cannot withstand our power. My men will have them under submission soon.”
“Then I will siphon their resources. Bit by bit. Fior will be blessed for generations to come.” He drank the last of his wine, cackling as it clanked into the chest. “As the Lord sees it fit.”
A commotion outside the grand audience hall cut their attention short. There was yelling, the doors burst open. All guards who lined the hall sprang into action, swords drawn.
A woman's plea carried over all others, fighting against them. “Your Majesty! I beg of you—please hear me!”
Raising one hand, all the men stood down. King Fergus got to his feet, stone-faced now. “What nerve of you to throw yourself in here without invitation. Speak, woman. Who are you?”
She stumbled forward. “I am Eleanor Beaumont. My husband, Geoffrey, served in your Royal Guard.”
The name calmed him. “Ah, yes. Geoffrey's wife. He was an excellent Captain before Edgar took over. Nasty illness that was,” he said in sobering rememberance. “How may I serve you this night?”
Coos from the cloth pouch answered first, slung across her shoulder and bosom. Gasps and whispers bounced off the stone walls when the child's tiny dark hand reached for Eleanor's chest.
Edgar was disgusted. Furious.
“What is this?” He left his post beside the throne, striding toward Eleanor. He ripped a blanket shielding the infant from the cold, throwing it to the ground. “Filthy pup,” he spat at the baby. “You dare harbor Devarian blood on this land, woman?”
“I had no choice!” She held her ground strongly, bringing the infant to her chest. “The mother died during the baby's birth. She is buried on my husband's farmland.”
She pushed Edgar out of her way. “Your Majesty, the child has no one and she is innocent. Please. You would honor me by sparing her life and giving her sanctuary—”
“Your Majesty,” Edgar broke in, pleading sense to the king. “You simply cannot partake in this request. The child's life here will only entice others to follow. Not before long, Fior will be overrun by unwanted mutts. Is that how you wish to be remembered?”
“Silence, Edgar.”
The King's boots echoed as he approached his general, scowling. Face-to-face, authority dripped from his every breath. “My legacy is my concern alone. Not yours.”
Edgar's tightened his jaw, staring him down with no further rebuttal.
King Fergus turned his gaze to the baby.
Eleanor didn't move a muscle as he scanned over them. She couldn't decipher his thoughts from start to finish. But decision came.
He grunted, returning to his treasure.
“Tell me,” he said, swimming his hands back into the cavity. “What will you call this black rabbit of yours?”
Relief washed over her fiercely. Mercy was in their sightlines at last.
“She will be called by my mother's name. Noella Chantal Beaumont,” Eleanor replied.
* * *
Nestled securely in his mother's arms, little Aaron Vaughn-Sinclair—scarce three fleeting summers old—lifted his wide, wondering eyes to the grim majesty of the castle gates, those massive barriers of iron-barred oak rearing aloft like the portcullis of some fateful keep.
They had come at the king’s gracious summons, for Callum—once the sovereign’s companion in restless boyhood—had shared the wild vows and laughter of a friendship untouched by crowns. Now, royal favor, long thought lost to distance, descended upon their humble home.
As they trod the threshold, where flagstones gleamed cold underfoot, Aaron's infant gaze—steady as a young eaglet’s—fell upon a solitary figure gliding from the inner court: a weary woman, her form bent beneath some invisible determination, a swaddled babe clasped fiercely to her bosom.
She had vanished like a shade into the gathering dusk beyond the gates.
Before he could ponder this spectral sight, there strode forth to meet them was Sir Edgar Dubois.
He was a charming man, passing fair in mould and feature, yet something in his aspect smote the child's pure heart with dread.
“Good evening, fair lady,” Sir Edgar said smoothly, his husky voice low and curling, “and to you, Callum—welcome to the king's high seat. He's often spoken of your old friendship. It's my honor to bring you in.” He bowed low, lifting his head to appraise them one by one, staying a fraction too long on the mother's blooming cheek, whilst his lips curved in a smile.
But Aaron, shrinking closer into his mother, shuddered; that face—oh, that stare!—held naught but a void, cold and unplumbed.
“Mama,” he whined, his voice feeble above the wind, “I don't like him—his eyes are empty.” He clutched at her kirtle with dimpled fists.
“Hush now, Aaron—you foolish little thing,” his mother scolded, though her own cheek flushed a vivid rose, her bosom heaving with a secret thrill at Edgar's silken words; for who could withstand such charm? “Don't talk wild about a knight of the king's council. It's just your childish fancies playing tricks.”
Parting the throng like a sunburst through storm-clouds, came the king himself, his regal port unbowed by years or crown, striding forth with outstretched hand to clasp Callum's in fraternal grasp.
“My old friend!” he cried, ringing clear with laughter. “I have been waiting for you.”
“It is good to see you, Your Majesty,” Callum answered brightly. “My family thanks you for your invitation.”
“Tis my pleasure.” He clasped his shoulder. “Now then. Rejoice with me—rejoice in this new wealth I'm sharing freely with you! You are the first—the only—family I trust enough to give a generous portion. Come in, and let it make your lives brighter!”
Thus did they pass into the castle's glowing heart, amid tapestries, while Aaron's wary soul, prescient as a seer's, foreboded shadows gathering in the golden captain's wake.
