Prologue

Parted Waters begins the story of the people and lands of the Broken Bowl of Wiera Earth. It originates from the love story of Yalipha and S’Karen.

There were seven Portent Seekers walking the path through the tombstones at dawn, faces hooded by long cowls, bare feet soundless on the dry rocky earth as they ascended higher into the mountains.

The crashing echo of falling water grew closer until the steep path turned them onto the Face of Eyaethris, the smooth green rock luminescent with its own magical twilight, rising out of the cleft of a hill above them like the horn of a denkwolfe, and splitting the falling river into two large beams of sprinkling light and mist before it crashed in foam and thunder in the whirlpools below.

The path led onto a steep ledge now that overlooked the chasm that was surrounded by walls of grey rock tinged with green and blue shadows as the mist swirled over the shimmering surfaces and obscured the view of the river where they rose up.

They walked in a line, one before the other, each holding a shallow dish filled with unlit ash and incense that rose up when stirred by the cool air, trails of dust carried by the whisper of the winds over the figures in black that walked slowly ahead into the spray in the half-darkness.

“We are not alone,” observed Raeve with the silky voice of spirit women, the last of the seven, as she glanced back for the third time since they had begun their journey. “A warrior has followed us from the tombs.”
“A scavenger?” Helva asked, not needing to turn her head. She walked ahead of Raeve. They hardly lifted their voices yet they all heard each other clearly above the loud din and they spoke in the old tongue.
“A stranger to this land whose presence reeks with familiar blood,” said Osliva, the leader. “He follows us carefully, cautiously. I am surprised he has come with us this far.”
Raeve was uneasy. She was the one who felt the prickling sensation at the back of her neck beneath her black shawls. “Familiar blood, or familiar bloodshed? Those scorpion soldiers of the palace crawl everywhere.”
“Well, there is only one of him, and no one else to tell the story of his death,” snarled Aweir violently, glancing back beyond Helva and Raeve. “What he was seeking amongst the dead he will find for himself.”

Their path led them so close to the Eyaethris Fall that moisture slipped through the loose coarse cloth that they wore and ran down the limbs of their thin bodies. But they had reached the cave entrance, a long jagged slit in the rock, and one by one the black figures disappeared within.
Osliva felt for a groove in the smooth wall next to the opening and picked up a torch which Aweir helped her light.
The others proceeded within, forming a small semi-circle in the middle of the hidden cave as it was cast into yellow light. The Portent Seekers placed their vessels on the ground before them, and threw back their hoods and shawls.

Their white irises glowed bright, their white hair fell to the waists of their black robes, and their skin was as yellow as the flames. They were old women, otherwise known as wolfekin amongst the tribes of Shagorra, and they lived with the dead.

Aweir heard the crunch of boots just outside the cave as they bowed their heads to begin the meditation, they all heard the sound, pale eyes snapping open, and the woman reached for the dagger under her leather belt. She had positioned herself closest to the door.
He strode in quietly, looking warily from Aweir to the rest of the cold faces turned towards him. His hair was wet, plastered over the leather band and his lean cheekbones, and his boots left patches of wetness around the patterns of footprints from their bare feet.
“I need to find my father’s grave,” he said in doen, as they glared at him.
Osliva was almost amused at his impertinence. How dared he follow them into a sacred cave and calmly ask for a tour of the graves? He obviously knew what they were. Her sister Aweir was ready to stab him in the heart, from the way she clenched and unclenched her fingers round the dagger’s hilt, and Osliva glanced at her, cautioning.
“And who is your father?” she asked coolly, eyeing the young man. The scent of the blood was strong beneath the demure brown cloak he wore over his broad shoulders. It was stained at its borders with the dust of traveling.
“Mathen Al Erideus.”
Osliva stepped back, pale eyes staring widely. “Who are you, boy?”
“A grieving son, who must find the place where his slain father now lies,” S’Karen replied, looking from her to the rest. “You must help me.”

 

 

Author's Note

What do you think?
Check out more at my website http://www.writerscafe.org
Thanks a lot! xxx

Reviews

[murrill]

I realy like the prologue Kept me on my toes. I like when Aweir may the statement: “Well, there is only one of him, and no one else to tell the story of his death,” that kept me reading. I also notice from my point of veiw there is not one single erro. Crafty writting I most complement. Great job.