Nanowrimo 2006 Story #4: "The Silk Dragon"

She had never had such a delicacy before; no wonder the Fire Rangers considered it a treat. It even earned itself a song; granted it was as annoying as the Map Song, but it did have a catchy tune that stuck in one’s head for hours.

“Sisi, do you have any songs where you come from?”

She started at the question. They were all looking at her, so she said, “My Foster-Mother used to sing all the time...since we’re talking about food, well, she had a song about chaochaou.”

Coren blinked. “What’s that?”

“It’s a drink...” she tried to describe it to someone who had never seen it before. “It’s brown and made out of hard nut, the juice is mixed with spices, and it’s very good, but it makes you nervy...”

Jay-Jay frowned. “Chocolate?”

“Cho-kou-latte.”

“It’s a kind of milk.”

“No, Jay-Jay, it’s not made of milk; cow, yak or otherwise.” She sighed in frustration. “It’s—“ then she broke out into song: “Chaochaou, Chaochaou, Chaochou, Chaochou, DRINK! Chaochaou, Chaochaou, Chaochaou, DRINK!”

Utter silence. “That’s it?” Nonnie said, mystified.

“That’s it,” Sisi replied proudly.

The other Rangers looked at each other for a long moment, then Coren said slowly, “It sounds like coffee, Nonnie. She says it makes you nervy...it’s brown and made from something small. And the word is similar.”

Sisi blinked in the sudden silence and immediately wished she hadn’t said anything. Coren smiled and waved a hand at one of the servers. “Lanie, two cups of coffee, please. Sisi, this is a drink from where I come from. I want you to tell me if this is it.”

A minute later, Lanie slid two steaming cups of brew in front of them. The earthy smell brought tears to Sisi’s eyes, and she sipped at it: thick and sweet. “Yes, yes, this is very similar, Coren! My Foster-Father makes this and sells it at the yukka, and serves it hot, and everyone in the village drinks it, and he makes other drinks too, some that I can drink, some I can’t. I usually can’t drink this, because it makes me too nervy, but it reminds me of home, and it might be the only thing that—“

Her rambling words stumbled over each other and became a muddle, and Coren reached over to her and gave her a hug. Her veneer of calm shattered and she cried like a little baby as the homesickness and fear finally washed over her like a tsunami.

“You know, you’re so brave,” Nonnie said as she placed a hand on her shoulder. “We Fire Rangers have a lot of passion, a lot of chutzpah, and some of the other Elemental Rangers call us reckless. We tend to hide all our worries under a facade. You don’t. I respect that.”

Sisi sniffed and wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “I feel so horrible—“

”Don’t be. We aren’t scared of emotions, like some others,” Coren said with a laugh. “We laugh, we cry, we argue and make up, we sing, and in general—“

”WE ARE LOUD,” the entire room chorused, then burst out into claps and applause.

Sisi felt a new smile steal across her lips. They reminded her so much of Foster-Mother Tatara and Tatara’s relatives...colorful, loud, and always looking for an excuse for a festival. Meng Pao and the Churro reminded her of solid Earth: rock-steady and reliable, but very reserved.

Lupita finished her Hot Potato and said, “You know, we are due for a new uniform design, and I can see you have an eye for color. Would you like to help?”

Sisi’s smile grew wider. “Yes, of course I will!”

Jay-Jay said it for all of them. “I think it’s the beginning of a wonderful friendship.”

Link brought her to her new quarters, a room right between Lupita’s and Nonnie’s, which consisted of a bed, clothing chests, a writing desk, and a little oil lamp. The bed had fluffy pillows and thick blankets that she had been used to in her family’s tent.

“I thought you might want some things from home,” Link said.

“Thank you, sir. I don’t know what to say—“

”Tomorrow, I’ll be back to show you your classes. Nonnie and Lupita will help you settle in tonight. It will be a brand new life for you, Little Sisi.”

“I think I’ll be all right, sir.”

“Then good night, and I will see you on the morrow, then.” Link inclined his head to her, then turned and headed for the door. As he went, he reached into his black jacket and took out a oval-shaped fabric. With a flick of his wrist, the fabric popped up into a tall, cylindrical hat, which he placed on his head as soon as he cleared the doorway.

Nonnie and Lupita came and showed her the outdoor pools. The Ranger compound was situated near a natural hot spring, heated by a nearby volcano, and the pools were filled with hot water for washing. The trio talked as they soaped and rinsed and Sisi learned much about her newfound friends.

Nonnie was from a place called Florida, as warm and humid as Churro was cold and bone dry. She talked about living right on the ocean, where people swam and ate food caught directly from the water. She had enjoyed something called parasailing, gliding in the air with a huge wing and pulled by a boat on the water. Her Dragon had saved her when her safety harness had snapped and she fell from a great height from the sky. He had taken her through her own Passage through an icy wasteland, where she had faced her own fears of falling, before she arrived here.

Lupita belonged to a tribe called the Aztecas, a grand empire that encompassed thousands of villages. Her father had been a priest, her mother an oracle. One day, a rival priest drugged her mother and told her that the only way to avoid a plague was to sacrifice her only daughter. So Lupita was readied for the sacrifice, and marched up the steep stone steps to her doom.

Of course, Teztlpotl, her Dragon, had other plans for her, sweeping her off the stone altar before her grieving father plunged the knife into her heart, and taking her to her own Passage through the Jungle of Death, to confront her own fears of betrayal and anger, before she too, ended here, with the Fire Rangers.

Sisi listened to these tales with awe. It made her own journey and Passage seem simple in comparison, but she relented to tell it when the other two begged. Nonnie whistled in admiration.

“It seemed so simple, but I would’ve been terrified. It takes a lot to trust your Dragon not to let you fall. I had to do that with SurferDude.”

“SurferDude is the name of your Dragon?” Sisi asked.

“Yeah, it was the screen name of a guy I once knew, who surfed the waves at Key Largo, tanned hunk with a great big...surfboard.” Nonnie waggled her eyebrows. “Anyway, SurferDude lives up to the name, rides through the air like a great dolphin, that’s a beautiful fish, Sisi, I wish I could take you to see them.”

Lupita smiled. “Tetzlpotl came to me in the guise of a great phoenix bird...um—“

”I know what a phoenix bird is, Lupita,” Sisi told her.

“I thought I had already arrived in the Hall of the Gods, but of course, I serve the Gods instead with my life.” Lupita sighed and stretched her long, lean body. “I’m for my rest, so good night to you all.”

“Good night, Lupita.”

“Fair the night, Lupita.”

Nonnie turned to Sisi and said, “It’s getting late, we should go to bed too. It’ll be a busy day tomorrow.”

Sisi only nodded in agreement.

Back to Chapter Three
Forward to Chapter Five

All original writing and art copyright A. Dameron 2000-2011

Novel Excerpt (2): "Chapter 1: Panet, A Song of Life and Death"

A second excerpt from my fantasy novel, "The Book of Shadows"

1. Panet

A Song of Life and Death

Alunius Panet’s boots crunched on the gravel path: left, right, left, right. His scarlet cloak unfurled around him as he walked, like a cape of feathers. The morning sun sparkled on the silver-gilded symbols of the harp case slung upon his back. His graceful fingers picked a complicated tune on his lute. Alunius closed his eyes and listened to the beautiful strains of the "Amorata”. The music reached its conclusion, a single high note. That note hung in the air, then faded among the sighs of the wind. The close-cropped gray curls gave the player a cap of steel fuzz. A pair of spectacles perched on a narrow nose.

A red robin alighted on his shoulder and startled him from his thoughts as she stroked his cheek in welcome. He laughed and said, “Well, good morning, little Robin. This is a bit early for you, isn’t it? I thought you took your time with the beginning of your day.”

The robin warbled an indignant note. “No insult meant, my dear. What has you up and about so early?” She bobbed her head and twittered so fast that it made his ears ache. “Slow down, little one. I can’t understand a word you’re saying. Take a deep breath and tell me all about it from the beginning.”

The robin chirped in annoyance, but she stopped with an open beak. Then she began again, slowly and deliberately, as if he was a simpleton. He took no offense; instead, he regarded her with a thoughtful look long after she was finished.

“Are you sure, Little One? This isn’t the season for your kind to leave the cities and the countryside. Why are you doing so? Is there a change about which I should know?”

The robin whistled a long mournful note, and pecked at the chain around his neck.“I will tell the others, Little One. Bring back this message to your elders: ‘do what is right for your safety. I hold no judgment against you’.”

The robin chirped agreement, then stroked his cheek with her own. He reached into his pocket for the last tabra seed and held it out in his palm. The robin accepted the gift with the dignity of a queen. He said, “Go on, Little One. Grace of the Gods go with you, my friend.”

The robin disappeared into the gray sky. He watched her go with a sober expression. He drew out his silver medallion, embossed with the shape of a large falcon. A ruby glittered within the falcon’s eye. He passed his thumb over the jewel; it winked back at him.

The Eye of the Falcon is sharp, and sees what others cannot, or will not, see. He reached deep into himself and stared at the ruby with double Vision. He nodded as his Soul agreed, and brought himself Outside. He clasped the falcon medallion in his hand, then released it with a sigh. He picked up his pace, following the path as it sloped upwards.

As he crested the hill, he looked down over the valley. At its floor lay the capital city of Narthu. It resembled the petals of a flower, dirty gray on the edges, fading to cream. Two tall towers jutted out of the center of the flower. Sunlight sparkled on the magnificent stain-glass window set into the side of the Western Tower. The royal purple and blue hues surrounded the Sign of Warding, a bright pentacle of gold and orange. Alunius likened it to "Paradise, in the middle of Hell on Earth, for we must go through Hell to get to Heaven." The description of the trip through the city was, unfortunately, accurate.

A cloud of ravens floated over the Cathedral spires, and as he watched, it swirled into the dawn sky. He shook his head and thought, Even the birds of doom are leaving as quickly as they can. Suddenly, he felt the urge to join them, to turn around and flee over the hills, far away from Narthu. The temptation was so strong that his body trembled in its wake. Then practicality took over: where would he go? His sense of honor overcame his moment of weakness. He continued down the path until he couldn't see the city anymore.

It dipped close to the top of the rushing water, and the cables creaked as he made his way across, hand over hand. Alunius swung along with the flow until he stepped lightly on the other bank. This was the East Road, the back way into Narthu. He joined the swell of foot traffic over the wooden bridge spanning the Baccuret. Traders and nobles, travelers and vagrants alike shuffled towards the entrance gates. A large portcullis hovered over Narthu's eastern entrance, a set of teeth in the mouth of a hungry wolf, ready to devour the souls of the innocent.

“Heyla, stand in line, you’re no better than the rest of us,” an old man at the gate told Alunius. The man was stooped with the weight of his merchandise on his back, all of dubious quality.

“Quite right, friend,” he replied. The trader returned it, proudly displaying missing front teeth.

The line moved swiftly, and Alunius found himself before a pair of guards. They patted the front and back of Alunius’s clothes; every touch betrayed nervous efficiency. They’re more careful today than usual, he thought. I wonder why.

The older guard gave him a brass coin with a number on it. "Don't lose your coin; you'd be thrown into the jail. 'Course-" he waggled his eyebrows at Alunius, "if you've silver or gold, Milord, 'tis a different story."

"I'll keep it in mind, good sir," Alunius replied. He made an elaborate show of producing a silver piece out of his beltpouch. The man’s eyes gleamed as he snatched it with trembling fingers. He traded the brass chit for a silver one.

"Thank ye for your donation, Milord. The Duke will remember your generosity."

Alunius’s mouth tightened as if he'd eaten rotten qualfruit. "There's another hour in the Confessional for me,” he sighed as he crossed another bridge and into the poorest part of the city.

Wooden tenements stretched towards the sky, five or six levels in some places. Laundry lines wove between the buildings. Street peddlers cried out their wares at every street corner. Women shouted to each other from their windows. The streets twisted and turned into corners and blind alleyways. Tucked into those niches were the unfortunate, the unhappy, the unloved. The walls provided some basic shelter from the elements, but it was not nearly enough.

Buskers set up their instruments and their coin boxes. They eyed Alunius with suspicion as he went past, but he only smiled at them and waggled his nose in good-natured humor. Then he sent a warm wave of reassurance between himself and the buskers, and the envious faces melted into ones of rueful understanding.

I’ll not steal their livelihood, he thought. I used to be in their place, once upon a time, and competition meant less money for bread.

He gracefully sidestepped a crowd of shrieking children, but they linked hands and danced around them, surrounding them with laughter. The Bard laughed with them, one hand on his lute and the other on his beltpouch.

“Sing us a song, sing us a song!” they chanted. “Sing us a song.”

Alunius strummed his lute with a flourish. “Very well, then. One song. What would you like to hear?”

“The Jester and the Fool,” they chorused.

“Your wish is my command.” He strummed the first chords, then broke out into the song. The street urchins swung themselves around in a mock round dance. Other children clapped their hands in time to the music. Passers-by spared a quick glance at the merrymaking, then hurried to their business. Their eyes shifted from side to side with the usual suspicion, but he read a new emotion within them.

Fear.

Fear for more than their lives, but their very souls. These people were hardened by their desperation and poverty. It took more than intimidation to frighten them. So what had happened in the two weeks he had been away from Narthu?

He reached out with his senses, using his song as a carrier. The music spread from him in waves and touched every soul within reach. That was Panet’s ability, to calm and to soothe. As he opened his Inner Vision, he saw dark shadows hovering over the streets, faceless and nameless, not attacking or harming, but watching as the people went about their lives.

Watching, and waiting.

For what? The shadows ignored his scrutiny, as if he didn’t exist to them. Perhaps he didn’t; they seemed intent on the other men and women of the city. Watching. And the people couldn’t see the watchers, but could feel their gaze. Little wonder they skulked around like guilty thieves in the night.

By the Gods, what are these beings? Alunius thought. He wanted to study them further, and to find out from where they came. He took a step towards the nearest spot of darkness...

Wild applause jerked him out of his trance. Alunius bowed to his impromptu audience, and gave each child a copper coin. They ran off as soon as the metal touched their hands. As soon as the last urchin disappeared, he headed in the opposite direction, towards the towers of the Narthu Cathedral.

He turned the corner and nearly ran into a solid line of people. “What in the name of the Gods—?”

A washerwoman glanced over her shoulder at his hushed exclamation. “Haven’t you heard of the entertainment today, Milord?”

He shook his head, gave her a slight smile and slipped into a courtly formal tone. “I have not, Milady. I have just arrived from abroad ; will you please enlighten me?”

The washerwoman dimpled at his calling her “Milady” and swung her basket to her opposite hip with all the grace of a princess smoothing down her skirts. “The Duke clears the scum from the jails and offers them what they deserve, here at Raven Square. If you’d like a better view, Milord, there’s room over there, at the other side.”

“Aye, I shall take your advice. My thanks, Milady.”

She dipped into a curtsey with a giggle. “You are quite welcome, Milord.”

He returned an elegant bow, then slipped into the crowd. Although his voice was pleasant as he exchanged greetings, he wanted to escape from here as fast as he could. A crowd had gathered around three sides of Raven Square with the enthusiasm of a Festival. The smooth black granite flowed like a pool of shiny tar, and at its middle stood a scaffold of sturdy oak.

Alunius saw a well-muscled form high above the crowd. A giant of a man stood at relaxed attention, a few steps from the chopping block. His arms bulged under the peasant shirt as he shifted his axe in his hands. The black breeches and boots were of dark cotton, plain but comfortable. A hood covered the executioner's head and hid his features from public view, all but his eyes and mouth.

Those marvelous eyes, he thought. Gray-green, the color of a stormy sea, hiding emotion deep within, for none to see. Alunius made a mental reminder to include it in his next ballad. The two men stared at each other in silence.

A strident voice shattered the connection. "You there, Bard! Play something else for us while we wait!"

A deeper silence fell as the crowd turned towards the speaker. Instead of rough homespun, this man wore black velvet, with scarlet piping at sleeves and hem. A circlet of silver held back a fall of dark curls. His dark eyes flashed a challenge to Alunius.

Alunius immediately dropped to one knee and schooled his face into eager attention. "And what would his Grace wish to hear? Say, and I will play.”

Duke Horan de Borchaux-Dumas smiled, perfect lips showing perfect teeth. The Monarch’s favored advisor pretended to ponder the question, then he asked, "How about “The Dark Angel's Lament”, to set the tone for this sobering event?" Horan gestured with a careless air. "The lesson in that story applies to us all, does it not?"

"Certainly, Your Grace." Alunius unslung his harp from his back and tuned it to a minor mode. "Obedience or death, quite a lesson, indeed."

As Alunius began the introduction on his harp, he matched his thoughts with the cadence of the song. Only he could hear the unspoken words: You don't see me, you will not remember me...as he hummed the tune under his breath.

The executioner gave him a slight nod, as if in complete understanding and approval. Alunius could feel the eyes of the Watchers and fear coiled around his spine. An icy skin settled over him and chilled his soul, but he took a deep breath and sang the first verse of “The Dark Angel’s Lament.”

A black wagon rumbled through the streets, its wheels creaking on their final journey. It groaned as it bounced on the cobblestones. Tendrils of fog wrapped themselves around the cart and soaked the velvet lining. Drops of water fell from the rickety bed and streamed behind it. They fell like muddy puddles of blood.

Alunius saw the wagon and cut short the musical interlude. Instead, he sang the final chorus:

Sing ye now, on your way to the bottom,

Where the sirens sing and dine

Upon your bones and on your heart

Your soul's no longer thine.

The condemned man sat next to the driver, back straight and eyes unflinching. Months of dark imprisonment had shriveled the once-portly frame and leached all color from his hair. The knuckles of his clenched fingers glowed against pasty skin. Cold sweat soaked through his velvet shirt.

Alunius allowed the final dark chords to hang in the air, then disappear into nothingness. The crowd remained silent as the wagon approached. There were no shouts, no tears, no screams of panic, only an air of expectation. Crimes were punished; that was the end of it. Alunius shivered at that hostile calm; he would have welcomed a tear or two for the condemned.

Horan laced his fingers together in his lap and leaned forward in anticipation with a gleam of delight in his handsome face. Alunius felt the inhuman pleasure at another person’s suffering and it turned his stomach. How can he sleep at night with such a black soul? Even as he asked the question, he knew the answer: He enjoys the Darkness; it is his strength.

Alunius started to slip away among the onlookers when a quiet voice stopped him. "He enjoys these things, overly so. I wonder when the hunter will become the hunted."

The executioner bowed his head in acknowledgment, then spoke again. "Good morning, Friar Alunius."

Interesting. How does he know me? Alunius wondered. He made his tone pleasant as he replied, "Blessed Sunrise to you as well, my son."

The headsman did not smile, but dry humor resonated through his voice. "Seems to be a busy day today, Friar."

"Indeed. The Gods have made their judgments. We are only instruments for their justice."

The scaffold creaked as the headsman shifted his weight. The bloody beams of sunrise gleamed on the polished steel of the axe. "Justice." The word sounded as sweet as a lover's name. Alunius turned at the unexpected sound and gazed up again at that hidden face.

"Is that an honorable word among your people as well?" He wondered just from where the headsman came.

"Yes," the big man rumbled, but he did not elaborate. He knelt in front of Alunius. "I ask your blessing and forgiveness, Friar."

Alunius hid his surprise at the unexpected request. A headsman with a conscience? He took a vial of water from his Bard’s robes. He hummed his cloaking song as he sprinkled some of the water on the headsman, the axe, and the chopping block itself.

"May the Gods we both serve bless you, my son, and wash your hands clean of the necessary evil you must do. The Gods know our hearts; they forgive."

"I thank you," the headsman murmured. He smoothly rose to his feet and assumed his guard stance. He hesitated for the first time, then he made a decision. "If we never see each other again, Friar, may I leave you a remembrance?"

Alunius shook his head at the strange request. "I need no token to remember you," he protested.

"Please, I insist. A remembrance if you will." Then the headsman stared directly at him. They looked at each other for a long moment, challenge in his eyes, questions in Alunius's.

If only I can see whose face lies under the hood! Alunius thought. Aloud, he replied, "Very well, but if it is to be a remembrance, I must know the giver's name."

A ghost of a smile appeared on the headman's lips. ""You cannot pronounce it in your language, but 'Justice' is acceptable, Friar. As you noted, it is appropriate."

"Indeed it is. Clever of you."

Justice pressed something smooth into his palm. "Keep me in your prayers, Friar, and I will keep you in mine."

Then Justice bent and half-whispered, half-sang a verse in his native language. Alunius's mouth dropped open; it sounded as if he had taken a random assortment of guttural consonants, and somehow sweetened it with flowing vowels. A message formed in his mind: If harm threatens you, Friar, remember me, and I will come. Alunius was too stunned to react.

Justice only smiled like a benevolent father to his only child. "Go with the Gods, Friar Alunius," he said.

The crowd rumbled as the black wagon ground to a halt in front of the scaffold. Ever the showman, Alunius bowed to the audience, and then to Horan. The duke only gave him a distracted nod, for all of the attention was focused on the condemned. Alunius went back to his "You don't see me" hum as he fled towards the Cathedral. A hum of metal, a heavy thunk of flesh hitting wood, and Alunius knew Justice was already hard at work.

Then he looked into his open palm. A silver charm shone under the bright morning light. The image of a stringed instrument had been carved into it with exquisite detail. Along the edge of it were strange symbols.

Funny that the taker of lives should bless mine, he thought. A genuine grin stretched the corners of his cracked lips. "The same to you, Justice," he whispered.

All original writing and art copyright A. Dameron 2000-2011

Novel Excerpt (1): "Prologue: Book of Shadows"

Here is the prologue to "The Book of Shadows", my upcoming fantasy novel.

Prologue

Moonlight danced through the holes in the roof of Saint Rafael’s Chapel. Their shadows flickered over the cracks in the walls and the ruined gates. Crickets chirped and ants scurried across the broken tile floor. The wind sighed through empty rooms with low voices. Honeysuckle vines crept up the garden stones and gave a sweet smell of renewal. Buds poked their way out of the soil in the Old Gardens. Their colors gave the Chapel a strange aura, of being caught between two different times, one living and one dead.

No one dared to venture on the grounds. The country folk believed Saint Rafael himself protected this hallowed ground from wicked men. They claimed to have seen the apparition in the old Scriptorium, gazing at his shelves with his piercing blue eyes. Thieves left the precious books alone; no one wanted to incur the wrath of a saint.

Well, almost no one. Daniel De Leonlac reined in his horse at the bottom of the hill. He looked up the winding path that led to the battered iron gates of the Chapel. The narrow ledge was bordered by sheer cliffs on both sides. Stones rattled off the path and tumbled down the embankment. De Leonlac winced as he heard them shatter on the rocks.

“Gods bless us,” whispered a voice at De Leonlac’s side. Brother Cherill Vilton made the Sign of Warding in front of them, a five-pointed pentacle. He pointed at the empty path with a shaking finger. “Do you see them, Milord?”

De Leonlac glanced at him with a perplexed look. “‘Them’, Brother Vilton?”

“The Guardians, Milord. They say ghosts guard the path to Saint Rafael's.”

“What ghosts?” De Leonlac turned back towards the path and shook his head. Brother Vilton was a Man of the Gods, but he saw evil spirits in every corner. “All I see is fog rising at the edge of the path—

The wisps of fog swirled around them like streams of gray water. De Leonlac’s teeth chattered as icy fingers touched him. A cloud passed over his eyes and hid the path from view. Panic closed his throat as he lost all sense of direction. White and gray, edged with black, the colors of death...

“ Brother Vilton? Cherrill?” He couldn’t see the monk, but he could hear Vilton’s chants and prayers of protection. Then the wind swallowed Vilton’s words and substituted its own.

“Why are you here? Why have you come?”

“You know why I’ve come. Search my heart, and know the Truth.” De Leonlac tried to shout the words, but they came out as a harsh croak. His body trembled as the cold filled him. His knees buckled under him, and he could only lie motionless under the onslaught.

Visions poured into De Leonlac: a warrior in plain brown robes, brandishing a curved blade of unknown design; a red-haired man wearing a silver crown, a purple mountain range under a burnished golden sky, a thick book edged with silver and adorned with strange green letters...

No, not just visions, he realized with a start. Memories. Memories and knowledge. They assaulted his senses with alien smells and tastes, and his skin flushed with sensations he had never experienced before. Strange music echoed within his mind: harp and lyre and flute, both sweet and sorrowful.

The borders of his mind swelled like a balloon close to bursting. He made no move to stem the tide of information; if he resisted, the pressure would kill him. So he tried to make sense of the images that flashed in front of his eyes, and the sounds that reverberated through his head.

Yes, yes, you! You are worthy to change history, said the chorus of voices. You are worthy to learn the tales and bring them to the world.

The fog split into two sections, then four, then eight. Each entity took position on either side of the treacherous path up the hill. Their glow highlighted the holes and cracks like beacons. Time began to flow again, and a warm breeze ruffled De Leonlac’s hair.

He sat up and put a hand to his aching head. So much to remember and comprehend...nausea turned his stomach and he shuddered as sickness racked his body. When he was finished, he wiped his mouth with the back of his gloved hand. He squeezed his eyes closed as the storm finally settled. He repeated a mantra, over and over, as a buffer against the pain. I am not these memories; I am Daniel De Leonlac, lord of Rineux and scholar of Tsoratic.

“Milord, are you all right?” Brother Vilton asked as he knelt by De Leonlac’s side. The monk’s eyes were terrified at what he had seen, but his hands were steady as they checked his lord’s breathing and heartbeat.

“Yes, Brother Vilton...I was just...overwhelmed for a moment.” De Leonlac gazed over at the path, and the line of Guardians on either side of it. He felt no malevolence from the spirits, only a sense of quiet patience.

“I’ve never seen anything like this, Milord,” Brother Vilton whispered. He glanced at De Leonlac with a mixture of fear and`awe. “What did you say to them?

“Nothing,” De Leonlac replied with a rueful smile, “but I received their answer. Come, Brother Vilton. We have an appointment.”

“Yes, Milord.”

Slowly but surely, the two men guided their horses up the circular path. Vilton winced as he heard the stones rattle down the hill and into the crevasse far below them. De Leonlac paid the sounds no mind; for his mind was elsewhere.

Blessed Rafael, forgive my trespass, but desperate times call for desperate measures. He firmly repressed a shudder. The world had changed since the days of Blessed Rafael and his Companions; the memories told him the roles they played in that change. A sense of sadness and anger filled his soul. Then a voice---not his own--- echoed his pain: It was not meant to be like this! We must change the ending of the story.

De Leonlac agreed. We will change it, I swear!

Rust had eaten away at the gates until they bent like young saplings. The lock hung by a single thread of metal. De Leonlac pushed the gates open and made his way across the ruined courtyard. Dust rose as he moved across the broken tiles. Once he crossed into the Chapel’s main foyer, De Leonlac knelt on the ruined mosaic floor and genuflected, pressing his forehead against the stones. When he got back to his feet, he came face to face with a pair of soulful eyes.

“Gods above,” he whispered. His hand went to the knife at his belt. Then he looked again and realized the eyes belonged to a painting of a warrior monk. De Leonlac had never seen the man before, but the new memories told him the name. He glanced at the other paintings, and other names came to him.

Blessed Bard Alunius Panet. Blessed Warrior Raymer Vulour. Blessed Healer Sankram Nandoori. De Leonlac nodded at each painting, as if to the real flesh-and-blood man. Three men of different lands and backgrounds, all united in a common cause. Of course these men were all dead, two centuries and more.

 “Milord, I think I’ve found the way to the Scriptorium. Over here."

He followed the sound of Brother Vilton’s voice. The monk stood at the entrance of one of the halls branching off the foyer. Vilton raised his torch high above his head; the firelight illuminated a hand-lettered sign tucked into the corner: Scriptorium Sanctum.

De Leonlac nodded in approval. “Good work, Brother Vilton! Let’s find what we came for.”

All original writing and art copyright A. Dameron 2000-2011

Nanowrimo 2006 Story: "The Silk Dragon"

My Nanowrimo 2006 story "The Silk Dragon" will be moved from the old site to "Annie's Flights of Fantasy", my archive of original work (non fan-fiction). Here is the link to the Introduction page, which will have all the links to the "sessions" or "chapters". Each "session" will have links to the page before and after it. 


Why "session" and not "chapter"? Nanowrimo is "National Novel Writing Month" (November), and the goal is to write a 50,000 word novel in 30 days. I began writing and didn't stop.  squeezed in more writing in between taking care of (then) two kids, a 3 year old and a 10 month old at the time. The places where I had to "break" are the "session" breaks. They're of various lengths and not necessarily where I'd actually break the story into chapters.  


Yes, this work is unedited, and I've kept it in its original form to show the process of writing.  It's raw, and yeah, it's silly and rather weird.It's the process, not necessarily the end result, that is important in this novel. And when I was running out of steam, I pulled ideas from kids' shows, real life, history, etc. al. See how many you can identify.


Read and enjoy! And please, leave comments! :-)




All writing and art copyright A. Dameron 2000-2010

Original Flash Fiction: A Walk on the Beach

Flash Fiction= less than 100 words

A Walk on the Beach.

The gray skies of dawn, the cool crisp smell of seafoam and brine. The breeze whipped the ocean like cotton candy. I blinked in the cloudy haze and tried to get my bearings. Yes, the bridge is this way. I stepped onto the cool sand, my bare feet sinking into the wetness. My toes shivered, but as I made my way to the shoreline, they stopped trembling.

I pulled the hood of my windbreaker more securely over my head as the goosebumps popped on my flesh.

All writing and art copyright A. Dameron 2000-2010

Story Excerpt #3 from "Cantadora": Chapter 3: "Serena, the Devoted One"

Chapter 3: Serena

The Devoted One

The Temple of the Sun Lady towered over the other buildings of Santo Tomas, white stone and polished marble with gold gilding above the doors. Devotees entered through the main gallery and were greeted by a statue of Santo Tomas. His outstretched hand pointed them towards the main Altar, draped in white silk and decorated with fresh flowers. The Altar was surrounded by the smaller Elemental Shrines. Santo Tomas’s was Fire, the fire of passion, of creativity and of healing. The Water Elemental was represented by the Lobos River, that flowed through the town. Air was the summer breezes that swept through the valley, and earth was the food brought out of its depths. The shrines fairly bulged with offerings; gifts of sea salt, candles, incense and holy soil multiplied as the morning went on.


A Cloister Sister lit the braziers of spicy incense. Another Sister rang the bells, and a third played on a wooden flute. Two drummers sat cross-legged on either side of the marble altar, their steady beat heard even above the noise of the crowd.


Most of the people enjoyed the gathering, yet some of Santo Tomas's elite preferred their own solitary devotions. Doña Serena Ferro-Rasquez knelt in front of the Sun Lady's private altar. Serena, as the wife of Santo Tomas' vice-mayor, insisted on a quieter worship.
The niche was cut into the red adobe walls, then sanded smooth and gilded with sheets of thin gold. Vases of fresh flowers adorned it, interspersed with votive candles and vials of holy water. At the center of the altar was a painting of the Lady of the Sun and her twin, the Lady of Darkness. The Righteous was clothed in brilliant garments that matched Her porcelain skin and girdle. The Terrible wore robes of black and red, her dark eyes smoldered with hate, her lips painted in ruby gloss.


Serena touched the small statue of the Sun Lady, then the smaller figure of Santo Tomas, Her faithful servant. The Blessed Man wore the homespun clothes of a simple trader, and thus was the town’s guardian.


A shadow floated at the corner of her eye. At first, she thought it was merely another penitent, but it was dressed in dark clothing, and not the bright colors of the townspeople. She turned around, but no one was there, save for the worshipers in the wooden pews, deep in their own devotions. There was Senhor Claudio the baker with his brood in the front pew, then Senhora Trupi with her perfumed hair and voluminous skirts. Serena frowned in disapproval; Trupi was a hypocrite, but the High Priestess still allowed her to pray at the altar.


Poor Trupi. May she find her enlightenment, as well as all those who walk the crooked path in the Shadows. The Sun Lady offered forgiveness for all, but some required more penitence than others. Serena’s mouth quirked as she thought about the High Priestess herself. How many secrets lay buried within the Sun Lady’s Servant? After five years of spying, Serena still had no idea, and that worried her.


Serena continued her prayers with a new fervor. Her chant rose and fell in cadence. "Lady of Light, protect my house and all who dwell within it. Lady of Light, have mercy on those who still live in disbelief and bring them to you, someday--"


She paused, as she usually did, to pray for her brother and her sister-in-law. Poor, poor Reynaldo. How had he gotten involved with a family of sorcerers? He had been brought up within the Abbey, as Serena had been in the Cloisters, but Reynaldo never quite devoted himself as completely as was proper. Then the Brothers had discovered his skill in trade and negotiation, and he had been sent to the Traders' Circle. Serena still believed it had been the correct decision. Someone who did not believe in a cause should not be forced to pursue it.


At least Mother had the intelligence to realize that, Serena thought with a wry twist of her lips. Serena chose to remain in the Cloister and devote herself to prayer for her family. Elena Razquez approved of her decision; after all, what proper mother would want less for her daughter? The family needed all the heavenly support it could get.


Serena was content in the Cloister. Its simple, repetitive routine gave structure to her life. The Words provided her with comfort and joy. she felt more alive during her Devotions than at any other time of the day. It was as if the Sun Lady herself had granted her most secret wish: to enfold Serena into Her arms and protect her forever. She had been ready to take her vows as a Sister. Reynaldo understood her zeal, if not her intentions, and encouraged her. As Serena had found purpose within the Cloister, Reynaldo had found it with the Traders.


Then the impossible happened. Doña Elena, their mother, died suddenly from a brief, but devastating, illness. Don Bianco, their father, assumed complete control. He had never been particularly religious and did not comprehend his wife's--or his daughter's--religious fervor.


"You will listen to me," he told her on the day he dragged her from the Cloister. "It is time you lived in the real world, not a world of mystical nonsense."


Before she knew it, she was married to Miguel Ferro, one of Don Bianco's dearest friends, and a rising political figure in the town. Miguel was not unkind, but he was not loving, either. Reynaldo found out about the wedding after the fact--by that time, he had married Magdalena Sampara, the town weaver. Reynaldo had chosen Magda of his free will. Serena was furious at her brother for defying all they had been taught, and listening to his heart.


That, and having the courage to do so. Serena laughed silently. The courage I lacked in the name of following my elder, like a traditional daughter should. Not everyone heeds the traditional Call. Her various spies had reported the arrival of Lady Isabel, the Senior Healer of the Southern Circle, and Isabel was sure to visit her cousin, Magdalena.


The Healers. A bunch of stiff-necked vultures who would have died out long ago, had she not intervened. A wry smile tugged at her lips at the memory.


She came to the end of her formal prayers. then she raised her eyes to the twin images on the altar. Her mind groped for the words to say; she was never good at speaking from the barriers within her heart.


"Lady of the Sun, I come to you in great need. I wish your guidance. I ask for your mercy on the child. I fear for it, Lady, with Isabel as godmother. Mystical talent runs in that family, and I sense dark power within Magda's womb."


Serena stole a furtive glance at the Lady of Darkness. Was it her imagination, or did lightning flash within the cobalt eyes? The flames of the candles flared once, as if in agreement. Serena felt a surge of self-righteous indignation. If it had been her child, she would send the little one to the Cloister and the Curandera. They knew how to handle those born with the potential of wild, uncontrollable Talents. Serena wished for a chance to do so--perhaps there might still be a way.


She linked her hands around her prayer stones and raised them, straightening her back and gazing deep within the Sun Lady's eyes. Tears streaked down her cheeks. "I implore you, as a humble supplicant, to give me the courage to defy the grand plans of my brother and his wife, for the child's sake. I followed my father's will as meekly as a lamb and discovered how much of a coward I really was. It pulled me off the path to You and now I must rediscover my way. Speak to me Your will; tell me, show me what I must do. For my salvation, and the family's, please guide me."


The stones grew warm within her hands. Again, her gaze strayed to the Lady of Darkness. No, she thought fiercely,I will not let You destroy my family, not this time. Your curse will stop here and now. You took my mother in death and my brother in disbelief. I will not stand idle any longer.


But the gaze held her in its thrall. Serena's arms trembled, then sank back to her sides. The voice was as sweet as precious sugar, just as rich, and full of warm love, just as she imagined it would.


My daughter, I will never leave. I will give you the aid you so richly deserve. Never fear for the souls of your beloved niece or of your brother. I will save them. I reward deep devotion such as yours, especially after the trials you have been through. You deserve such reward.


The Lady had answered her prayer. But why was she so frightened? Had she made a mistake? Had she--? Serena tried to sob, but her vocal cords were paralyzed and the Lady spoke to her again.


Listen now, My daughter, and I will tell you what to do. My will to yours, My heart to yours. Do you fear Me?


"Yes, but I don’t know why. I have never been afraid of You—“


I will never lead you astray, you know that. Will you trust Me?


Serena's mouth moved of its own accord. "Yes."


Will you follow Me?


“Yes. Yes, of course.”


Good. Very good.


Serena knelt in front of the Lady's altar and listened attentively. She never noticed that she was staring at the Lady of Darkness, not at the Sun Lady, as she had thought. The painting's rosy lips curled into a slight, slight smile.



When she came back to herself, the Lady’s voice had died down to a mere whisper in her mind, but she still felt Her love and guidance. Serena stood up from the kneeler with renewed determination. She would save her brother’s child and the rest of Santo Tomas from the darkness. The Lady had told her how to do so, but she needed time to prepare.


Serena quickly left the Sanctuary, drawing her veil over her face as a proper noblewoman did in public. Despite her veil, most of the townspeople recognized her and asked for her blessing. She smiled and laid her hands on theirs and spoke the traditional words: “May the Sun Lady herself bless your house and those who live within it.” A warm current spread out from her fingers and seeped into the skin of the petitioner.


She hurried into the courtyard of her husband’s house, giving a nod to the servants bustling about the estate. Serena climbed a set of polished granite steps to the main audience chamber, where the festa was being held.


She circled the banquet hall, adjusting a setting here, pinning a drape there. Her expert eye found many flaws in the servants' costumes. Serena admonished them with quiet words as she corrected them. "Everything must be perfect for the banquet," she said. "We must display Santo Tomas in all its glory."


None of the servants noticed the slight electric thrill of her touch and they went about their assigned tasks. The tingle buried its way into the ceramic plates, the silver wine goblets and the table settings. It wormed into the cakes and vegetables, the fruit and roast beef, all without the cooks' knowledge.


Serena knew. A part of her cried out in dread and terror, but it never reached her ears. The Lady had promised their deliverance; She would do so. She had heard the prayers and answer them in Her own way; Serena was only an instrument of Her mercy.


Mercy or wrath? Then the words skittered across her mind and were lost in the numbing ether.


"A beautiful room, Carissima," boomed Don Miguel Ferro. The vice-mayor of Santo Tomas surveyed the festival hall and beamed with pride. His balding head reflected the sunight, and the gray mustache quivered in genuine delight. He wore an orange festival shirt embroidered in gold and silver thread, and pants hemmed in the same fashion. The red sash emphasized Miguel’s considerable girth.


Magda’s quiet joke, when she designed it for him. She always had a sense of dark humor under the graciousness.The thought of Magdalena worried her for a brief moment, but then, it too was gone.


"Te de Gracio, my dear," Serena answered with her most disarming smile. Miguel straightened and extended his hand to his wife. The tingle crawled up her fingers and buried itself into Miguel’s blood. Her husband didn’t notice as she brought her to the door to greet their adoring guests.


Forward to Chapter Four
Back to Chapter Two


excerpt from "Cantadora" by A. Dameron 2011. All rights reserved.tadora" by A. Dameron 2010. All rights reserved.