A critical mistake sends The Pale Dominion into chaos.
An old, grizzled soldier must face the challenges he can not bear to imagine as his fall from grace lands with a splash of upheaval. What costs will he be willing to pay for those he loves to finally see him as he truly is?
A lost maiden is forced to struggle with the violent impositions placed upon her. When will she find a place to call home? A place for her to bask in the truth and justice she knows to be right.
A prince riddled with insecurity and inheritance now faces a new world, asking it a question that no one seems to be able to answer for him. Being swept up into a war he never asked for brings him to his knees, but may show him the mirror he needs to look into.
With their lives set asunder how can the intertwining of three bring the changes needed to the people who call The Pale home? A formidable new future crests on the horizon. One that will remake what was. One that will change everything.
A critical mistake sends The Pale Dominion into chaos.
An old, grizzled soldier must face the challenges he can not bear to imagine as his fall from grace lands with a splash of upheaval. What costs will he be willing to pay for those he loves to finally see him as he truly is?
A lost maiden is forced to struggle with the violent impositions placed upon her. When will she find a place to call home? A place for her to bask in the truth and justice she knows to be right.
A prince riddled with insecurity and inheritance now faces a new world, asking it a question that no one seems to be able to answer for him. Being swept up into a war he never asked for brings him to his knees, but may show him the mirror he needs to look into.
With their lives set asunder how can the intertwining of three bring the changes needed to the people who call The Pale home? A formidable new future crests on the horizon. One that will remake what was. One that will change everything.
The Primary
I canāt believe people live like this. Mostly homes, maybe a shop.
Heat from the bright day fatigues DiliāAriās face. With a soft hand, he pats the horseās silvery pale coat to find it warmer than he is. Sweat drips as he leans down to talk to his horse.
āAlmost there,ā he whispers before raising his volume to continue, āSee that hut over there; itās made entirely with straw. Iād never allow myself to live like this. Itās good incentive I suppose, right CraaāCuri.ā
He slows CraaāCuri to pass through the meager set of structures. A few working people are out on the road. Looking tired and ragged they find the energy to quickly slip inside at the sight of him. One overweight man wearing a loose maroon shirt and dirty mint pants stands his ground on the roadside.
āHullo.ā
āHullo as well,ā DiliāAri responds.
āYou wouldn't be the Primary DiliāAri, would you?ā
The man's face is rather red, from overexertion or poor diet, itās hard to tell. Not that it matters, I know his type.
āIndeed.ā
āSire, you look as valiant as the stories. Do you need for anything while in our settle?ā
DiliāAri grins slightly.
āI could use a warm meal, if there is one to spare.ā
Lowmen like this fancy being needed by those they admire.
The Primary watches as the manās face brightens two shades.
āYes! Yes, of course. Come inside, fresh too. As much as you would like.ā
The hard leather of DiliāAriās armour creaks as he dismounts. He secures his horse to a nearby rail. The man rushes to the door to open it for his guest. DiliāAri scans the area to assure himself that no one suspicious will try to steal his horse, and then follows the man into his home.
The place is as simple as any lowmanās house has ever been. Aging wood walls holding onto small trinkets of heraldry. Three rooms at best, the kitchen, bedroom, and the everything else room. Where do theyā¦ never mind.
DiliāAriās dismal review of the abode halts upon seeing the man's wife tending to a stew. Her short nose wriggles between her delicate eyes as she notices the Primary. She turns to him in time for her husband to begin barking orders at her.
āHurry up, hurry up! We need to feed the man, he's starving.ā
His wife wipes her hands on her well-soiled apron in a rush. The man never breaks eyes from DiliāAri as they sit down on stools at his weathered wooden table. He smiles at his guest while leaning forward clutching his hands together upon the table. Ā Ā
āYou know, Prince Dalen just came through here. Seeing two men of your standing, one in my home, on the same day no less. Itās quite the tale.ā
With a cold look DiliāAri responds, āI wouldnāt say Iām of the same standing as a prince.ā
āIāve seen Primaries in sharper armour, but surely you know the way people speak of you. How he speaks about you,ā professes the man, breaking his quirky grin to laugh.
āUnfortunately, the two of us havenāt spoken for almost a whole month,ā DiliāAri explains, then crosses his arms while reclining. āIt always feels like weāre just passing by each other anymore.ā
The man leans back as well. The creaking of his nearly broken stool steals the Primaryās attention. āOh, saddens the heart that does. Is the stew ready?ā
The woman waddles over carrying two wooden bowls. The steam rising from them coats her face. As she sets the bowls down, brown watery liquid spills over the edge. DiliāAri gazes inside to cubed bits of meat and potato swirling around. She beams a radiant smile for the Primary who pinches his mouth and kindly nods.
āAye, itās been many years since I spoke to my son. I canāt even think of what I might say to him, Iād imagine itās like that with you two.ā The lowman cautiously tests his food.
DiliāAri watches him eat first before sampling his own. The flavours arenāt made for royal tongues, as he has the pleasure of enjoying regularly.
Reminds me of food slopped out at the war camps.
The Primary takes a deep sigh before letting his shoulders slump. āI hadnāt thought much about it either. Maybe weāll have drinks and discuss his future. Tell him how proud of him Iāve become. Not sure Iāve truly done that yet. Heās come far, but the whelp still has much to learn.ā
DiliāAri peers up to the man, who immediately drops his view back to his bowl.
āRelax, I can speak of the boy like that, I practically raised him. Taught him how to hold a sword, swing a swordā¦ use his sword.ā
The chuckle DiliāAri lets out is cut short. The following stillness in the room accentuates the wifeās root chopping. She slowly comes to a premature stop.
āSome company this is.ā The Primary drops his bowl before standing up. Blocking the only source of light, he darkens the space.
The man grows flustered and stutters, āMany apologies, Sire. Many apologies. I am unused to such banter about the prince, especially fromāā
āFrom what?ā DiliāAri recoils.
The lowman cowers while his wife screams. DiliāAri blinks to find his hand on his sword hilt. The soldierās cheeks burn red hot as he releases his grip.
āNo, many apologies from me. It seems I still haveā¦ previous matters on my mind. Thank you for the meal, I shall spread word of your hospitality.ā
The lowman hesitates but eventually nods in silence. DiliāAri forces himself rigidly upright, drags his hands down to straighten his layered armour, then quickly departs the simple home.
He storms to CraaāCuri, untethering and mounting the horse before steering him back along the road towards their destination. Even from here DiliāAri can see every road ahead, as well as the city of Pale Halt, resting in the depth of the valley. The reminder of the task handed to him drags his conscience down to new lows.
āThe shit I have to go through, CraaāCuri.ā
The horse responds with an agitated snort.
āI have achieved the highest honour a soldier can have, to be a Primary. Everyone around me knows this, including him. And yet Doran sends me out, clean of conscience, to inform his nephew Vasen that he is to be disinherited. Such a task would be amply suitable for a well-seasoned messenger ā but no ā Doran anticipated the worst. And thus, he sends me; his able-bodied soldier ā his tool ā to do such a task. And I did the task, though maybe not the way he wanted.ā
Harvest sparrows fly out of a thicket to his right. DiliāAri pays no mind to them as he runs through memories of the event, remembering being met by an expertly honed tongue.
āIf he wants me gone, he can come tell me himself, not have his mongrel attempt to take me from my seat.ā
The consistent clod of his horseās hooves fail to distort the words as they ring in his ears.
āThese very words forced a worthy decision upon me. Should I be a messenger? Or should I be a mongrel? These kinds of complications give you but a mere moment to decide, and yet have the lasting impact of a scar. As with any such choice, I had my doubts.ā
The soldierās memory serves him. Images of an overly competent man on the battlefield becoming a sniveling child in the court of tongues repeatedly play in his mind.
CraaāCuri lets out a soft nicker.
āSilence would not be accepted.ā
DiliāAri remembers himself reaching for the hilt of his blade. The eyes of every one of Vasenās guard sharpening. DiliāAri's focus would fade before coming to find himself moving to exit the court, having given no retort. Then one final image persists.
āA woman in a sky-blue cotton dress. She seemed to look at me with nothing but apathy.ā
While shaking his head DiliāAri finds a herd of wild horses lingering along a riverbank. Some drink while others shake their mane. One rubs its head along anotherās in familial affection. He braces CraaāCuri to get him to stop. The two gaze upon the other horses for a moment before DiliāAri speaks again.
āThirsty?ā
Without getting a response DiliāAri dismounts CraaāCuri, takes his reins, and walks down to the waterās edge.
āItāll be long after midday before reaching Pale Halt, before being forced to deliver the news.ā DiliāAri surveys ahead for an acceptable place to refresh himself. āI canāt remember when Iāve last been clean. Since before Vasenās court? No matter.ā
Approaching the flowing water excites DiliāAri. He releases the reins of his horse. CraaāCuri remains, as any good horse should. He disrobes, leaving his weapon close to shore, then enters the water while wincing in pain.
āI may be well known in these parts, but simpler thoughts have travelled through the minds of men. Sometimes I wonder, really. The world around usā¦ this Fƶld has so much to offer and yet we fight over it.ā
He turns back to CraaāCuri for a response, only to find him still looking across the river. DiliāAri reaches up to hold a braided mess hanging from his short brown hair. The mess holding hairs not just his.
āI wish I raised more horses too. Only one Tutah? With what I know! Wellā¦ itās embarrassing. I know men with ten or more. Itās fine though. I still remember cutting your mane for mine, I was so young.ā
DiliāAri looks distantly down the riverās length.
Young. Ā
Waddling to his midriff he scoops up water to pour over himself. Soon the thought of the woman in the blue dress returns to him.
āBlonde hair, very rare around here, but itās growing more popularā¦ I think? Styleās something Iāve been losing a grasp of. When I was a young man prowling my city, I looked sharper than a blade. Now I look like a furnace; dusty, angry, built of stone.ā
CraaāCuri rises from taking a long drink to look at DiliāAri. The Primary halts as he can swear the horse rolled his eyes at him.
āStop. What are you thinking? The girl is far too young and beautiful. It was just a glance. Iāve tried to be with women before, old or young, butā¦ uhā¦ I find getting along by myselfā¦ easier. Itās the soldier life, perhaps.ā
He finishes cleaning himself then gives his clothes and armour a good washing before continuing his journey.
I suppose Iāve never seen myself as old eitherā¦ but who am I to argue? It doesnāt matter what they say about me, that woman made me feel younger than ever.
The old manās eyes ache. He drags his sight up the road ahead.
āWeāre going to have to stop at one of theseā¦ā He flails his hand around the air in front of him, āThey can't be considered towns, most don't even have names.ā
DiliāAri huffs, then strokes the neck of CraaāCuri.
āPeople seem to like these little āSettlesā. But you know as well as I, donāt you? I can think of no better way to live than in a city. I love the spectacle that is Pale Halt. Even on the war marches Iām never quite comfortable. Maybe thatās an important factor, it keeps me on edge for the coming combat. But battles are so simple. Everyone likes to talk about tactics and technologies; they overcomplicate it. Perhaps thatās just not how I feel, as comfortable on the battlefield as in my bed at homeā¦ Stop. I must focus, sort out what Iām going to say.ā
CraaāCuri snorts in response, but DiliāAri carries on in silence.
Midday comes and goes before DiliāAri finds himself in front of the massive gate to the city of Pale Halt. The stone, and timber framing it, stand as resilient as ever. Guards watch him as he rides through the deterring entryway. He passes the wall as thick as CraaāCuri before crossing one of the many stone and mortar bridges that extend over the rivers into the city. Strong, healthy reeds spew from either side underneath. The distinct clod of hooves upon cobbled stone is soon exchanged for soft padding on gravel.
DiliāAri guides CraaāCuri through the street filled with lowmen ambling about. He can hear merchants forcing every bit of sale they can. His eyes spot a peddler sitting at an acceptable crack in the middle of the street.
Not in everyoneās face, but out far enough to be noticed. Poor Vidicai, maybe his people should have their fighters earn coin instead of just teaching them and sending them away for Hue use. Men are men ā sure ā but the Hues could really treat the Vidicai better.
The fur running from the peddlerās chin down his chest appears still damp from last nightās rain. His slitted pupils track up to DiliāAri while his ears fold backwards. Before the man garners a chance to beg, the soldier snaps his reins to push past. Not looking behind him, DiliāAri doubles his pace. CraaāCuri trots through waves of the Hue people while DiliāAri gazes out.
āThe three castles,ā he utters to CraaāCuri. āI always thought I would serve at The Buffaloās Range ā Dak ā I know enough about horses to be accepted at The Horseās Restā¦ But The Owlās Perch feels like home, you know? I canāt see myself serving another haftā¦ servingā¦ listen to me go on like some silly man dreaming of labour.ā
Turning at the corner of a tavern, The Havenly Claw, sets himself on the street of The Owlās Perch. He finds two more ragged Vidicai lurking about and another two fighting over a scrap of bread beyond that. DiliāAri heels CraaāCuri, steering him along a different path.
The remaining ride through Pale Halt must have been a dream for DiliāAri. While sure he had done it, it fails to register with him until shadows of the sturdy walls to the castle cover him. He blinks to refocus himself and finds the gate already open.
The drawbridge is lowered? Studious defendingā¦ Doran must be seeing lowmen.
The confident clods of CraaāCuriās hooves nearly drown out the sounds of rushing river below him. Upon reaching the other side they are met by a most cheery guard standing near the gatehouse.
His enthusiasm bursts at the Primary, āSire DiliāAri! Excellent to see your return. I am glad we kindly crossed paths. Shall we stable CraaāCuri for you?ā
āKindly. Doran is in court?ā
āI believe the high king is taking appeals right now.ā The guard rushes through his words as he reaches out to handle CraaāCuri.
The old man nods while dismounting. Creaks of an aging drawbridge wane in the growing distance during his strides from the gatehouse. The poorly finished mortar cracks in desperation to enhance each corner of stone upon the curtain walls. Worn floors lacerated by scaffolding of past cultivate groves of discomfort. These same things catch his attention as he passes through the castle, always. DiliāAriās heart wretches at the sight of the fortress failing, a feeling consistently imposed upon him.
I know saving our pale copper for arms and armours is a better idea ā the metal is as powerful as any steel Iāve seen ā but the castle is a symbol of power we need; a symbol that should be in one piece. The fool never listens to meā¦ he thinks that I should leave it to his tradesmen. Maybe one day Iāll have to prove it, that I know the very angle the dust settles. The fƶldic wall carries the most dust.
He chuckles to himself. A few servants look at him, bowing out of respect or possibly natural reaction. DiliāAri cuts between the gathered men and women, trying to avoid more eye contact by observing the stone walls and worn blue banners hanging high on them.
During appeals the main hallway to the court is always shoulder to shoulder, packed with lowmen and messengers each biding their time to be seen. Them, along with all of High King Doranās servants, makes squeezing through quite uncomfortable. It's not that I feel they are disgusting ā I bear no ill will to them ā but itās mildly pathetic.
DiliāAri makes the final push through the open door into the hall, passing the Stewart of Chamber without a glance. Daylight shines brightly through the many tall windows along the walls. Two high arches with a central beam, holding lanterns for evening affairs, form the chamberās grand ceiling. A dull thud from the door being closed echoes behind him as he gracefully passes the nobles of the court. Saers and seths, men and women of title, sit stationed in their spectating rows along the wide carpet leading up to High King Doran, High Queen Alphimis, and Prince Dalen.
The three sit on elegant stools of copper and wood in a line behind a long table covered with various papers. Velvets and furs bearing bright powerful colours in contrast to the courtierās simple linens and wools catches DiliāAriās attention. The high kingās copper bracers, tailored with gems and etchings, gleam as the Primary lowers himself to kneel.
āMy faithful Sire DiliāAri, what news have you brought for me?ā High King Doran exclaims while clapping. The dangling sleeves on his embroidered robes of grey with streaks of blue shift papers on the table.
āI bring you the comfort that Saer Vasen no longer sits upon the throne of Bellovest.ā
āGood, great news even. Come sit,ā the high king boasts before barking commands, āFetch my Primary wine and food.ā
āMany thanks, my king. I shall retire soon to prepare for your orders tomorrow.ā DiliāAri rises before kindly bowing.
āYes ā indeed ā have the night,ā Doran exclaims, then returns to his conversation with his courtiers.
As DiliāAri sits servants bring him his favorably black cape. Moments later his decadent wine and platter of meats arrive. Before he can begin indulging himself, the hall door bursts open. The woman in the sky-blue dress enters, covered in dried blood and anger. The eyes of the court turn to her.
āDo we have no guards?ā the high king complains aloud.
The woman belts out, āSire DiliāAri has slaughtered the Court of Saer Vasen!ā
'A Spider's Web' is an epic tale, the first in an 'Anthology of FoĢld'. It's strength lies in its worldbuilding, the world, its people, its beasts and its gods, being revealed gradually and subtly. However, there is a specialized and unfamiliar vocabulary, and a quick peek at the appendices will elucidate details, clarify vocabulary and help with understanding the geopolicitics.
The different peoples and the different gods have different animal characteristics and affinities, and this is the main stage for fantastic elements to be showcased beyond the familiar medieval tropes of traditional fantasy.
The story is presented from the point of view of three main characters: the wouldn't-be crown prince Dalen, the has-been 'Primary' soldier Dili'Ari, and the not-for-much-longer innocent maiden at the heart of eponymous spider's web. The characters and creatures are characterized adequately, with the opening three chapters concentrating on each in turn as the 'mistake' and its consequences are introduced from different perspectives. Indeed each of the three is flawed, and makes a critical mistake whether due to obedience in an impossible task, a heart for justice and revenge that gets corrupted, or brotherly love and princely insecurity.
I would like to say the protagonists are strong, or that they develop strongly. But it is more their flaws that develop as their paths diverge then reconverge. I can't say that I identifed with any of them, although all of them had potential and the story is really about the loss of potential. There are many minor characters viewed through the eyes of our main characters, and in some ways they are the ones that are truly brought to life, and those that are foils and models to the protagonists are perhaps the most penetrating.
In some ways, the potential of the world is not really made clear. The function of a primary and the role of a maiden and the status of an heir could be brought into sharper relief as they don't quite fit the usual tropes in this saga.
And it is a saga: 'Anthology of FoĀØld' does not seem an apt name for a series of long-form full-length novels; 'Saga of FoĀØld' would suit better. And as I started the novel I was flung into the middle of a complex story without knowing where the beginning and end were (although I now gather that this is the first instalment). The 'in medias res' feel does not actually start in the middle of things, but with vague snippets as the old soldier returns home after the inciting incident. The incident is more on stage in the following chapter through the eyes of the young maiden, but she is not a reliable witness either. And then we get third hand views from the withdrawing prince as he witness their reports. So unfortunately it does not come across as an exciting incident or as valid motivation for the saga. And the ends do not tie up so well in the end either: there was unexploited scope to make a much more pointed poignant ending.
So I am left somewhat unsatisfied. The pace was a little slow and at quite a few points the unfolding tale was confusing (although perhaps this would have been less so if I'd skipped to the end and found the appendices before starting it).
Another ongoing bugbear was language. Bad language both in the sense of unnecessary foul language (that was anachronistically modern and uninspired) and in the sense of misused words/spellings (that jarred you out of the story even more than the unfamiliar terms I'd have found in the appended lexicon).
So in conclusion, 'A Spider's Web' will satisfy many readers of epic fantasy who don't mind the punctuating f-words or the occasional moderately violent or sexual scene. The tale could have been a four star, or even a five star, contribution to the genre, and with a good editor would have been. Overall, not a bad debut.