Fallen Embers (The Alterra Histories)
Read Fallen Embers (The Alterra Histories) Online
Authors: C. S. Marks
Fallen
Embers
BY
C
.
S
.
MARKS
Fallen Embers
T
he
c
haracters and
e
v
ents this
book are
entirely fictional.
No similarity
bet
w
een any
of the name
s
,
c
haracter
s
, person
s
, and/or institutions in this book with those of
any l
i
ving or dead person or institutions is intended, and any su
c
h similarity whi
c
h m
a
y exist is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2013
b
y
C
.
S
. Mark
s
, Iron El
f
, LLC
All rights rese
r
v
ed. No pa
r
t of
this book m
a
y be r
e
produced in any
fo
r
m
b
y any electronic or me
c
hanical means including photo-
copying, recording, or info
r
mation stora
g
e and retrie
v
al without pe
r
mission in writing from the autho
r
.
Published
b
y
P
a
r
thian Pres
s
, all rights rese
r
v
ed
P
a
r
thianPres
s
.com
ISBN: 978-0-9859182-6-2
Edited by Leslie Wainger
Cover art by Hope Hoover
Interior Illustrations by Hope Hoover, C.S. Marks, John Connell
Interior designed by Carie Nixon
T
he
A
uthor
’
s
W
ebsite CSMark
s
.com
Ama
z
on.com/C.
S
.-Marks/e/B002CHYQR2/
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ead
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Foreword
The wonderful thing about the
Alterra Histories
is that I have the chance to develop and explore Alterran characters and events—whenever and whatever I desire.
It’s also a wondrous thing to have an editor. I’m not speaking of a proofreader, though they are also essential to the production of a quality book. No, I refer to a developmental editor—one who finds plot holes, inconsistencies, characters acting out of character...that sort of thing. An editor who tells you which of your babies you must kill.
I have such an editor--the inimitable Leslie Wainger—a thirty-year veteran of the romance biz. But her abilities extend far beyond genre; she is a woman with whom I have learned NOT to disagree, no matter how painful.
When she returned the
Elfhunter
manuscript to me, I was dismayed to see that she had recommended removing one of my favorite chapters.
Not chapter seventeen! There must be some mistake!
Naturally, I called her right away.
“But, Leslie...I love this chapter. The readers love it...well, most of them love it. Why must I kill it?”
“You don’t have to kill it...just take it out of the book.”
“That’s the same as killing it!”
“It disrupts the flow of the story.”
“But, the readers love it!”
“I don’t care...it doesn’t belong there.”
Well, Harrumph! I love chapter seventeen. Darn it, it’s my book, and I don’t have to get rid of one of my favorite chapters just because Leslie tells me to.
But then I remembered a couple of reviewers’ reactions to that chapter. They wondered why it was there. It disrupted the flow of the main storyline. I realized that Leslie was right, darn it. Chapter seventeen was an indulgence on my part. With a heavy sigh, I took it out. I think I might have actually spent a couple of days in mourning.
I called Leslie. “Hey...I realized you were right, and I (snif!) took out chapter seventeen. (Snif!)
“Well, good for you. And remember...you can put it in a later edition as bonus material.”
Ohhhhh yeahhhhh!
When the
Alterra Histories
came to be, I knew I had found the perfect solution to my chapterseventeenectomy. Not only could I resurrect it, I could expand it—tell the back-story, the whole story, complete and unabridged! I was ecstatic. I could hardly wait to put my fingers on the keyboard.
Here, dear readers, is your revised, enhanced, director’s cut of our grand old chapter: “Gaelen and the King.” The new title,
Fallen Embers
, is a bit catchier, and certainly rolls off the tongue better than “Take away MY Chapter Seventeen, Will You!”
Enjoy.
—CSM
FALLEN EMBERS
PROLOGUE
Shandor the Mighty seldom shed tears, even in the depths of his grief. Yet he shed them now, gazing into the crystal, searching the silvery multitude of planes and angles for the one that could make his pain subside. His ice-blue eyes flickered briefly, then darkened again, passing over vision after vision until at last they lit upon the one they sought—the day Liathwyn told him she would love him until the end of time. She said it many times thereafter, but this time was special—it was the first.
His grip on the Stone tightened in anticipation as her lovely face swam into focus. Her voice soothed his wounded heart as nothing else could. Yet beneath it all, he knew it was only a memory, an illusion of passion long grown cold and dead. She was beyond his reach now—forever beyond his reach.
Dardis, who had made the Stone, had warned against doing what Shandor was doing now. “The Stone is meant to heal the pain of grief, not to deny it. You must not gaze into it too long or too often, for it cannot restore life to those we have lost. It is only a reflection—a shadow—but it may gladden the hearts of those left behind, reminding them that one day they will see their loved ones again.”
Except for me.
I won’t see her again. Where she has gone, I cannot follow.
Dardis had given good advice, but Dardis was dead and gone, and no one whispered warnings in Shandor’s ear. Liathwyn had left him months ago, and his pain had not diminished. He spent nearly all his time with the Stone now, reliving the moments he most cherished; the moments they had both cherished. He wondered whether her heart yearned for him. He supposed it did, but she was in paradise now, re-united with those who had gone before—mother, father, brother, friend. Shandor had no friends. Not anymore.
His only happiness now lay within the depths of an enormous, magical rock. He had not eaten in weeks, and he never slept, anyway, as he had no such need. But Shandor was literally wasting away in the darkness of the Chamber of the Stone—he needed the feel of the air and the light of the sun and stars on his face. Yet they brought him no joy, and he would not leave the darkened Chamber. The Stone shed all the light he needed, or so he thought.
He raised his eyes to the darkened vault above him, crying out to the One who had made him. “How could You have done this? It is by Your decree that we are forever parted...how could You have let me give my heart to her?” And the answer came from deep within him:
I knew better. I have always known better, and still I loved her.
He concentrated on the Stone again, his vision wavering and blurring as his eyes filled with hopeless tears.
I will not be made helpless,
he thought, his cold gaze riveted on the Stone.
I will remain here forever if need be. If I focus my will long enough and hard enough, she will return to me...our memories will be made real again, and we will be together for all time.
He watched her day and night, thrilling to the sound of her voice, comforted by the depths of love reflected in her dark blue eyes. But he could not touch her, could not hold her. He longed for the feel of her flesh against his—the softness of her hair, the warmth of her skin. He longed to walk beside her on the grass.
Just one last time...just one time, and I will be content.
Liathwyn remained distant, beyond his reach, and he clutched at the crystal, grinding his teeth and moaning in frustration, until at last he resolved that, somehow, he would go to her. He did not know whether he would succeed, or whether he could ever return, but he didn’t care. He focused all his will, threw his head back, and roared with effort. His heart pounded so hard and fast that he felt it might burst from his chest. Every nerve was on fire, every scrap of strength focused on the task.
The Chamber fell silent as Shandor’s body crumpled to the ground like an unstrung puppet. He did not feel it—instead he was falling, tumbling end over end, rushing past light and sound and scent and feeling, until at last he landed painfully in a tangle of arms and legs, disoriented and in pain. For a moment, his vision went dark.
“My love?”
He looked up, his head still spinning, but everything came into focus when he saw her, dressed in silver-grey silk, her hair woven with blue and white flowers, a bundle of green willow under her arm.
I gave her that gown. I remember this day! I...I am here, now, within the Stone. It is as I willed it to be.
Shandor’s body lay cold and lifeless on the stone floor of the Chamber, barely visible in the now-ominous light of the Stone of Léir, which had been forever changed. Only the bravest of souls would dare gaze into it now, for it housed the spirit of the mightiest being ever to roam the world of Alterra. Shandor dwelled within, together with all that remained of his only love.
He knew she was only a memory, but neither war, nor famine, nor any plea from those outside would ever make him leave her.
I
Tarfion of the Greatwood settled back against a moss-covered boulder and waited for his only daughter, Gaelen, to arrive. He had sent forth his favorite falcon, Giron, to fetch her, though he knew she would not be easy to find. He drew a deep sigh, lulled by the sound of the nearby river, and settled in for a long wait—this matter was too important to delay.
His thoughts strayed to the upcoming journey to Mountain-home, for he was to accompany the King as part of his personal guard. This great honor was usually bestowed on the realm’s most decorated warriors, not common hunter-scouts, but as the most fabled archer in the Greatwood realm Tarfion was anything but common. He had become the King’s favorite, a fact which both delighted and frustrated his two brothers.
I didn’t ask to be the King’s favorite,
he thought, reflecting on the incident that had assured his status for the rest of his life—the day he had saved the King’s only son from death. It had only been twenty years since, but he remembered it as though it had happened yesterday.
He had been scouting with his twin brother Tarmagil near the eastern borders of the realm, and had selected a tall pine as a watch-tower. Unlike his brother, who had settled into an accommodating maple some distance away, Tarfion never really thought about comfort. He could see better in this ancient pine, and that made up for the sticky sap on his worn leather breeches.