Chapter 1

Chapter 1 of Rivers of the Sky - my fantasy novel about loss, redemption, and the mysteries behind the Great Rivers of Transmigration.

It was another balmy day after the spring thaw, just before noontide and while the third-quarter moon still lingered in the soft blue sky. A field of low grasses fluttered lazily in the breeze, empty save the row of archery butts positioned at the northernmost end. Spectators lined the outskirts of the field, courtiers and ministers and noblemen all chattering and gossiping as they awaited the capital city’s annual contest of marksmanship.

Well, all except Adrian Renan.

His eyes were focused on the high marble terrace of the imperial tower, near the overweight prime minister and his slew of imperial toadies. Yes, there it was--the luxurious robe of rare firemouth silk hanging cheerfully from a gilded display stand, its fancy filigree lining and sleeves of studded garnets glittering under the blaze of the rising sun. It was a magnificent prize, a lord’s guerdon, but one that was meant solely for the victor of the contest. Adrian, however, intended to have it in his hands long before that.

His gaze shifted from the robe to the prime minister, Lord Talrin Haroden, who sat on a wide throne-like chair and sipped overpriced wine from an overpriced goblet. He was draped in his usual formal attire: a horned ceremonial headdress, pearl-studded sash and shoes, and a heavy fall of gray robes that resembled a pachyderm’s hide. The people called him the Rhinoceros Lord because they loved him, and they loved him because he had protected and guided the people since the emperor’s death split the realm and left a scion too young to rule. Lord Haroden was, in truth, a benevolent and evenhanded ruler, and that meant Adrian didn’t like having to steal from him. But the decision had already been made, and Adrian couldn’t back out now. Niall would never forgive him.

Where the hell is that little steward anyway?

Adrian studied the host of hangers-on that surrounded the prime minister. Now Niall was a difficult man to keep sight of--since he stood no taller than a woman and no wider than a boy--but Adrian’s eyes were still keen despite his thirty-six years, and soon he spotted the little steward mingling with the other courtiers nearby. So affable and trustworthy the man appeared, and yet, Niall, like most men of ambition, was nothing more than a weasel with an insatiable appetite for personal gain.

Now why would Adrian think that? Well, for one, the steward wanted more than half of the profit from the robe. That was simply outrageous. Sure, Niall may have secured their southern buyer and organized all the details of this little ploy, but it was Adrian who had to smuggle the garment out of the city and travel hundreds of miles to the south to sell the damn thing. It’s my neck on the block here, Adrian thought, and for that I deserve more.

He lowered his eyes from the tower and placed them back on the field. A company of mounted military officers cantered in from the south, hardened men strapped in thick plates of blackened steel armor that protected every point and crevice from shin to hip to shoulder. They bowed their helmeted heads and waved to the crowd while perched in the saddles of their caparisoned chargers, powerful beasts arrayed in hues of warm chestnut to deep roan.

Grand Commandant Kal Vileron was the last officer to appear. Even from a distance you could tell he was a massive man, a mountain of old muscle and grizzled hair, with bone-hard eyes and a crooked nose that had been broken more times than a lesser soldier might ever see battle. The grand commandant sat astride a coal-black charger whose steel chamfron matched the vulturine wings of his own helmet. Kal the Vulture he was styled, but many called him Kal the Ashen or Cinereous Kal or a handful of other names he’d acquired during his many years of military service. Point was, no other man inspired such reverence from the crowd--although in Adrian, he only inspired consternation.

A pair of robed courtiers bickered as they strolled in front of Adrian. “You can’t compete with these men, you clod,” the shorter one said with a snort. “Do you know how difficult it is to fire an arrow while moving at a full gallop? It’s not about sight or timing, no, a master marksman simply feels the precise moment his mount’s four hooves touch the ground. It may look easy, but such skill requires a lifetime of--”

The men were gone then, and Adrian’s attention returned to the terrace. His head was beginning to throb. Maybe it was the heat, maybe it was the nerves, or maybe it was the odor of unwashed feet mixed with all these cloying perfumes. He took a deep breath, thumbed the sweat from his brow, and adjusted the fit of his fancy satin outer jacket. Niall had given it to him so he could blend in with the other courtiers, but in truth, Adrian hated the garment. He hated it because it was an ugly and uncomfortable thing with oversized sleeves and garishly embroidered roundels, but more than that, he hated it because he could never afford it himself. No, these days he was nothing more than a penniless wretch who scraped by with the rest of the city’s detritus.

But all that would change . . . and soon.

Chargers galloped down the line, arrows twanged and thudded, tallymen made announcements, and the crowd erupted in cheers. This happened again and again until the afternoon sun finally began its descent over the western mountain line. It was then Adrian spotted a tendril of smoke drifting skyward near the base of the tower. It was a dark smoke, the kind produced by the dung of the blackest wolves of the farthest north, and yet, none of the spectators seemed to notice, not at first, not until the smoke thickened and thickened and nearly wafted into their faces. Even then, most onlookers simply nudged each other and murmured at what they saw. A few even cheered, thinking it was part of the event. But then more smoke appeared in different locations, more and more until the spectators were nearly surrounded by it. A woman screamed, and next Adrian knew panic had exploded through the crowd.

Frightened courtiers fled in all directions, shouting and shrieking and shoving their way forward. The guardsmen didn’t even try to restore order. No, they focused only on clearing a path for the water carriers, but the two-man teams who carried the massive containers never stood a chance against the crowd. Bodies collided and wood splintered and water drenched the earth, and passing courtiers in sandals slipped and fell into the mud and called out for aid. It was a terrible commotion but also a rather exceptional ruse--and that was exactly what Adrian and Niall had intended. No fire, no harm, just smoke.

Adrian stepped back and stared up at the terrace. Lord Haroden made his escape through a raised door curtain. His councilmen and ministers all followed without any notion of etiquette. Hurry, Niall, Adrian thought. Hurry, goddamn it. At last the little steward appeared. He snatched the robe from the display stand, crept the far side of the terrace, extended his arms over the marble balustrade, paused, and then opened his hands.

Adrian was running now, running toward the luxurious firemouth silk robe that was drifting down the western face of the tower. He did his best to keep an eye of it, but the mob of sweaty men and shrieking women did better to distract him. Move, move, get out of the way, goddamn it. A sudden gust carried the robe behind the walls of the imperial orchard. Adrian broke from the crowd and dashed along the tower. Faster and faster he went, faster and faster as he stormed inside the unguarded entranceway . . . and came to a sudden halt before a sea of blazing red blossoms.

No, no--what the hell is this? Apricot trees, rows of them, each pruned and trimmed and brushed with painstaking precision. The robe was lost among them. Damn it, I don’t have time to search every goddamn tree. But that was exactly what Adrian began to do. He went from one to the next, searching the base and boughs and blossoms, until he’d been through a dozen, then a score, then so many that he lost count. Where are you, where are you. Only after backtracking down several hedgerows and circling the same square three times did he finally spot the goddamn thing.

There it was, dangling from the canopy of a twenty-footer whose branches were gnarled and twisted and covered in toothy, ovate leaves. Easy climbing for a child, sure, but what about a man with only one usable hand? Adrian frowned. Is this some god’s cruel jest? Making a disabled man climb a goddamn tree.

No time for self-pity. The robe was nearly his.

Adrian grasped a bough with his good hand and planted his feet on any knot and latent bud he could find. Up and up and up he went, a slow and difficult ascent, which only grew worse when a honey bee began buzzing in his ear. Like a fool Adrian swatted at it, and like a fool his balance faltered and he slid down a painful four or five feet. Idiot, what is wrong with you? He remained there for a moment, catching his breath and taking in the sweet-smelling blossoms that flourished all around him.

He cursed the apricots for being early bloomers, then up and up and up he went. It was another slow and difficult ascent, but with care and patience he reached the upper limbs, seized the robe by its trimming, and gave a gentle pull. The damn thing wouldn’t budge. He tried again, harder. No use. He found another foothold and climbed a bit higher. Another bee zipped past him, or maybe it was the same one, who the hell knew, but Adrian ignored it this time. He leaned onto a branch that groaned under his weight, and with gentle fingers he unhooked the robe and brought it down to his chest.

Got you.

It was just as beautiful up close, but it was also divinely soft and flawlessly stitched. Any sericulturist worth his salt would tell you just how extraordinarily rare a single firemouth silkworm was, never mind how many were needed to create a garment of this size. That thought alone made Adrian smile as he unslung the haversack from his shoulder, stuffed the robe inside, and slid down the tree until the ground rose up with a thud. He made his way out of the orchard and back into the crowd. The exit of the palace district lay ahead. Don’t stop, Adrian told himself. Beyond the gates is the city itself, and after that is--”

“Where are you going with that?”

The voice was cold and deep and dangerously calm. Adrian’s heart shot up his throat. He refused to turn; he simply ignored what he heard and kept moving, doing his best to blend in with the other stragglers from the mob. The question came again. Louder this time, more forceful. Adrian ignored it a second time. Don’t stop, Adrian, don’t stop.

An arrow screamed past his ear, striking a wooden arbor no more than an arm’s length away.

Adrian froze. For a long moment he simply stared at the arrow. This wasn’t a poorly crafted thing, no, it was an expert’s missile, as evidenced by the sleek birch shaft and decorative motifs and expensive eagle-feather fletching. Never had Adrian come so close to being struck, not once in his three years of military conscription. And yet, he knew the arrow was intended only as a warning. He also knew that if he took another step, the next one would not be.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Adrian turned.

Grand Commandant Kal Vileron rose from the saddle of his charger, arms outstretched, crimson horn bow drawn, black-tipped arrow nocked and pointed. Adrian lowered his eyes. His life was over. Done. The end. Lord Haroden may have been an evenhanded ruler, but such blatant theft would undoubtedly come at a hefty cost . . . and that cost would be a swift sentence followed by an even swifter punishment.

But no, a careless runner in oversized gray robes slammed into the crupper of Kal’s charger. The horse bucked and whinnied, the grand commandant lurched forward, and the arrow snapped beneath the weight of his armor. Kal fought to regain control of the beast, and while doing that he growled, “Don’t you dare move, thief.”

“I won’t,” Adrian said, then turned and bolted.

He ran and ran and didn’t stop running, and every passing moment he feared an arrow would pierce him in the back. But it never did, and somehow, by some ridiculous measure of good fortune, the next avenue he turned down brought him directly before the gatehouse of the palace district. The exit was so close--but the giant double-leafed doors were already groaning to a close. Adrian’s legs pumped harder. No, no, no, no, no. The groaning deepened as the gap between the doors narrowed. I’m not going to make it, I’m not going to make it.

BOOM. The doors slammed shut--not a moment after Adrian had flung himself through. By the gods that was close. Too damn close.

Adrian’s doeskin boots pounded down the main avenue’s uneven cobblestones. He glanced back and saw sentries on the parapet shouting at him to halt. Moments later a sally port opened and a company of mounted soldiers came roaring out. Grand Commandant Kal Vileron was in the van, shouting orders and waving a quirt and looking rather furious.

Goddamn it, the b*****d’s not giving up.

Adrian cut through an alleyway and burst into the busy market district, and suddenly he was dodging hawkers and rug peddlers and acrobats and entertainers of all kind. Men gasped and grunted at his rudeness, while women started in surprise. Dogs loped and barked all around him, which caused pigeons to squawk and take to feather. From inside butcher stalls, ducks quacked and geese honked, hanging from bound feet. Street urchins dashed this way and that. Adrian dodged a handful of them and also a barefoot pregnant woman, but the portly fellow with the shoulder pole he never saw coming. He slammed into the man with a heavy thud, then stumbled headlong into a stallholder. Wood cracked and rattan snapped and figs and fruits of all sizes and smells and textures flew into the air. Adrian sprang back to his feet and continued running, ignoring the curses from the angry merchants behind him.

The crowds eventually thinned as Adrian exited the market district. He continued to run even though his calves burned with cramp and his lungs screamed for relief. Don’t stop, Adrian, you’re almost out. The North Gate rose above him, the city’s central exit, its massive jutting towers clad in stone and perched on a solid foundation of loess and tamped earth. The gates were still open. Listless sentries barely spared a glance as Adrian dashed under an enormous archway. Darkness gobbled him up only to spit him back into the light, and suddenly the grand city of Scarlet Hollow was behind him.

I did it. I’m out of the city. By the gods, I’m out.

Without stopping Adrian stripped off his fancy outer jacket in favor of his homespun and inconspicuous tunic and trousers. Around him the urban sprawl soon faded into a more idyllic view of suburban developments--taverns and hostelries and outbuildings and workshops that clung to the city’s massive outer wall. Porters and draymen clogged the main roadway, the axles of their carts groaning under the weight of their loads. Adrian maneuvered around the yokes of oxen and teams of draft horses and fled through an open stand of gray pines. Behind him, high above in the city’s watchtowers, clappers clacked and conches wailed as sentries raised the hue and cry.

The robe was his, but Adrian was now a wanted man.

Author's Note

Thanks for reading - unfortunately I wasn't able to secure a contract for representation, but a few literary agents praised my writing and world-building.

Reviews

[Wolf Beaumont]

I totally dug the way you described the world and all Adrian's senses of it. I really enjoyed the slow build up of pace into a frantic chase and you had me rooting for him the moment he saw the orchard. Really cool stuff and I'm going to read the other chapters for sure.

[Michael L]

Thank you! I appreciate your kind words, and for taking the time to read my work.

[Azmain Nisak]

Wow. Neat writing. I like how you smoothly incorporated thoughts of the characters into your story. By the way, do firemouth silkworms actually exist or is it something you invented? Mentioning it introduced an element of knowledge or research which gave the motive more credibility. Cool stuff!

[Michael L]

I appreciate your kind words and thank you! The silkworm part is real of course but I made up the firemouth part to add more value to the garment. Thanks again for reading.

[Rosie Brooklin]

This is a very creative and original piece. I absolutely love it! The descriptions are beautiful; you did a great job of painting the scenes with your words. The characters seem intriguing, and you ended the chapter with a great hook. Very well done!

My only critique would be to watch out for minor grammatical errors. Namely, make sure you're inserting commas after introductory phrases.

I look forward to reading more of your work!
~Rosie

[Michael L]

Thank you so much for reading, and I'm glad you enjoyed the chapter! I appreciate your kind and constructive words, and I will certainly keep your critique in mind about the comma placement - I sometimes leave them off thinking it will flow better, but that doesn't always work when I reread it. Thank you!