You speak of darkness. Do you truly know it?
You say it is dark because the candle has gone out? You think it dark because the moons hide their faces behind a cloud? You feel it is dark because your eyes are closed? You do not know true darkness.
True darkness is not the absence of light; it is the absence of hope. - Alywyn d'Winter, Journal
In a dark fantasy set on the planet Anarond, follow the downward spiral of Alywyn Rose d'Winter from innocent youth into the depths of brutality, slavery, and despair. In her escape from the chains that bind her, she finds unlikely allies, latent abilities and learns that the impossible doesn't exclude the improbable.
You speak of darkness. Do you truly know it?
You say it is dark because the candle has gone out? You think it dark because the moons hide their faces behind a cloud? You feel it is dark because your eyes are closed? You do not know true darkness.
True darkness is not the absence of light; it is the absence of hope. - Alywyn d'Winter, Journal
In a dark fantasy set on the planet Anarond, follow the downward spiral of Alywyn Rose d'Winter from innocent youth into the depths of brutality, slavery, and despair. In her escape from the chains that bind her, she finds unlikely allies, latent abilities and learns that the impossible doesn't exclude the improbable.
You show the world as a complete, unbroken chain, an eternal chain, linked together by cause and effect.
— Hermann Hesse: Siddhartha
Lay of the Rose
Stanza First
In the little port of Candor
lies the ruin of her youth.
Innocence lies there entwined
‘mongst the bare bones of the truth.
Ghosts of the past there now dwell
and its shattered shore she fled.
Along the twisted paths trod,
enslaved in silk chains instead.
A girl once pure, sullied there
in a House that pleasure wrought.
Body bound but mind run free
among many lessons taught.
In the depths the journey went,
light enslaved by endless dark.
Languish and despair she held
where no hopes of freedom hark.
Chapter 1. Paradise Lost
I have delayed writing this for too long. Where to start? The beginning is best, it is said, and so I shall.
Life occasionally paints vivid pictures, and that day was one of them. An idyllic day, bearing the crispness of autumn but with summer’s lingering brilliance. A frozen picture-perfect moment.
But life does not stand still. It moves on and idyllic pictures are faded, fleeting things of our memory.
— Alywyn d’Winter: Journal
--#--
[BBC 21 First Crop 1296 Godspawn]
Alywyn d’Winter looked upon the soaring hawk and gave a joyful laugh. She imagined, with a faint smile on her lips and eyes half-closed, its lofty view of the d’Winter demesne.
Oh, what a boon to have the sight to gaze upon Candor’s fields, forests, meadows, and heaths! A soaring view allowing her eyes to behold the foaming surf driven by the waves that battered the isle.
She laughed again, caught up in her flight of fancy. Her mind’s eye saw with a bird’s-eye view the bustling industry of the people there at work in fields, mill or in fishing boats upon the sea.
The waning sun and the sea wind caressing against her skin elicited another laugh. She imagined soaring amid a deep blue cloudless sky that merged with the far-away horizon of the bay. Her dreamy smile broadened as she imagined seeing herself sat upon the manse’s walls with her feet swinging idly and her tresses flowing in the zephyrs of summer’s waning like golden sunbeams.
Could there be a more idyllic day in all Anarond? Free of lessons and free of Mother’s constant disappointment and control. A frown briefly tugged at her face, and she took a deep breath and let the concerns of home flow from her. Right here, right now, this is peaceful and free.
Her smile broadened once again as her gaze moved from the dwindling speck of the bird to the tree-shaded lane that wound its way from the village to the manor. She spied the familiar shape of her father astride his horse. Her heart swelled and a warmth greater than the autumn sun coursed through her.
She vaulted from her perch to the walkway around the manor’s walls. From there it was but a happy, squealing drop to the court below. The soft thud of her feet matched the pounding of her heart as she sped out of the manor’s gate and down the lane.
“Father!” Her joyous squeal erupted to drown out the afternoon symphony of birds and insects.
“My little Rose!”
He reined in his mount, his seamed face erupting into a matching smile.
She squeaked her happiness, launching herself with a deft foot touching the stirrup before swinging up behind his bulk.
“Seated, my little Rose?”
“I am, I am!”
She laughed again, arms going tight around his waist. As was his custom in such moments, her father kneed the mount into a trot through the gate. They veered left to pull up before the stable, the horse’s hooves clattering on the cobbles. She vaulted from the horse, landing with nimble surety on her feet, and curtsied.
“Milord, the manor receives you!”
He swung with far less agility from the horse, and led the mount to its stall, turning the animal over to the stable hand.
“Is it now? Roast suckling boar upon the hearth with mead at hand?”
“Of course! Only the finest for our lord!”
Her father chuckled and ruffled her hair. “Come then, milady, let us partake!”
She tugged at her father’s immense hand in the petite grip of both of her own, and, skipping, led him toward the stout oak of the manor door.
--#--
The evening repast was done and, about their feet, dogs chomped on bone and the remains of sinew and meat. The hearth fire’s embers popped and hissed, and around the great hall torches sputtered in their sconces, sending shadows dancing in the chamber.
“So, my Rose, tell me how our estate fares,” her father said, pushing back from the table.
She smiled and bounced in her seat. Aside from playing her lute, this was always the highlight of her day. She ticked off the day’s gather on her fingers.
“Ten bushels of mussels, seven of crab, two of orata. Umm. Fifteen sacks of flour fresh ground await at the miller’s, a crate of tomatoes, and a few bushels of mixed greens await as well.”
“Oho! That is quite the haul, Mistress of the Market!”
Her mother interjected, her face tight with her usual severity, “Alywyn no doubt dallied at the tavern again. She was gone nigh on two hours longer than she should have.”
Why does she hate me so? Can’t she be more like Father? Does she even care what I love doing? Always demanding I be something I am not, always demanding perfection done her way.
“What of it, my love?” Her father fixed his gaze on his wife’s, giving her that same winning and piercing look that roused the masses to his banner. “She goes to play her lute and listen to news from afar. I see no harm in it.”
“Cavorting like some tawdry minstrel instead of at her lessons? She is a lord’s daughter! Not some tavern-dwelling slattern!”
I am not tawdry! Wait. What is a slattern? A wave of warmth spread across her cheeks, and she averted her gaze, focusing on the empty plate in front of her.
“My dear, if she becomes a trollop, it will only be because of our failures to raise her.” Her father’s intercession helped stem her forming tears, and she wiped her eyes. “Candor’s inn is not some wharf-side dive in Bres.”
“Tsk. Why you abide such conduct from her is beyond me! She has you wound about her finger and bespelled.”
Her father laughed and shook his head. “Bespelled and wound up, Isabelle? Perhaps I am, love. But look at that angelic face! Truly a beauty to rival the Amah of the Ten. It surprises me more that the flesh of your flesh does not equally dazzle you.”
“Pfff. Spare the hand and spoil the child!”
Why can’t she just accept my love of music? Why must every dinner end with this?
“Might I be excused?” she murmured into the nightly harangue, keeping her head hung low, and her fingers twined, fidgeting in her lap.
“Of course, my little Rose. Up at dawn’s breaking, and early to chapel. So, mind you, no playing the lute into the wee hours.”
She nodded, eyes averted and slid out of her chair. She went to her mother and gave her a hug that was not returned. Then to her father for a hug that included him hoisting her aloft and spinning her around. She gave him a strained laugh and kissed his cheek.
“Right now, off you go! Tomorrow, I would hear what news you gleaned from the mainland.”
She cast a backward glance and offered a tidbit of the news she had gathered. “Nadir and grik have been raiding near to Bres.”
“Together?”
“So the sailor said.”
“Odd.” Her father nodded and stroked his chin. “They are usually not wont to ally.”
“I found it odd too, Father.”
He nodded again and shooed her. “I would hear more of this tomorrow.”
--#--
[BBC 22 First Crop 1296 Godspawn]
She stifled a yawn under her hand, acutely aware she sat where all Candor’s folk could see. Ten forbid I seem bored and embarrass Mother with unladylike behavior. Well, I am bored, but it’s best if I don’t tempt her rebuke.
She tried to focus on Brother Kelim, Candor’s spiritual leader and only healer. But, as always, she found her eyes drawn instead to the garish reddish splotch that adorned the top of his bald pate. His words, already a drone, faded to nothing, his mark more interesting than hearing the same holy platitudes again.
Her gaze shifted to the ebony statue of Adon behind him, then settled on the three-pronged gold crown atop its head. They said the canted crown, rods pointing skyward, bore their prayers to the ears of the Ten, but she found it hard to believe that a god would care to listen to simple fishers and farmers. Or listen to my concerns, for that matter.
The congregation stood, and she did as well, relieved the Tensday celebration’s end neared. A day of rest and to visit the inn for the latest news. And to sing!
She mouthed the litany of the Tale of the Ten with the rest. As if we could forget them with the same invocation hammered home every week.
“Upon Anarond, we have cast our blessings ...” She recited the words by rote, retreating within herself. If I plead with the Ten, would they have Mother reconsider my visits to the inn? Am I not worthy of such consideration?
“... Fylis, Goddess of Fates, whose name Man shall call on for favor ...” Is it Fylis’ fate keeping me at odds with Mother? “... Xis, Goddess of Mysteries, who grants Man the power of magic.” Yes, and only men. Why not women?
She sighed. Brother Kelim had never given her a satisfactory answer. He claimed it was the Ten’s will, but had never provided a deeper explanation. Always treating me like a child! As if I cannot grasp complex things.
Bestava is the one I might favor, standing against the creatures inhabiting the wild and bringing war and pestilence to us. Keeping chaos away. Who doesn’t want to be seen as brave?
She mindlessly chanted along with the congregation, “... Their Amah shall walk among you as avatars, and be called Ba’anon.”
Kelim had never clarified the origin of Che’mal and Ba’anon. Sinister she understood, but what exactly was dexter? Do the Ten fight amongst themselves for harmony and human supremacy? That humans had fought amongst themselves, she knew, and harmony was an ever-elusive thing since time’s beginning. Are we not cast in their image? Rote and ritual, and no one, it seems, dares a definitive answer.
“Shadows are but a blur of those who cast them,” Kelim had explained. “It is folly to ascribe our shortcomings to the Ten.” But no, we mindlessly chant the Tale of the Ten, passed down since time immemorial and dare not question it.
She exhaled a quick breath and finished the chant. “Honor The Ten, one and all, and among them choose the patron who governs your life’s calling.”
Who governs my life’s calling? Adon, like Kelim and his ilk? Or Fara, like the fishers and farmers of Candor? She exhaled her pent-up breath, shaking thoughts of religion and theology from her head, receiving a chastising nudge from her mother for her fidgeting.
She gave a long exhale as Kalim bequeathed his weekly benediction. Thank the Ten. I’m free from this mind-numbing recitation for another week.
Her parents rose, gave the priest a bow, and headed to the chapel’s rear to greet the departing villagers. She followed in her parents’ wake, again aware of the villagers’ eyes on her. Soon I’ll be free from Mother as well for a while. She will sit alongside Father and hear the villagers’ petitions, and I can go to play my lute at the inn.
She stifled a groan. That was an indulgence she would soon lose, for Father had recently insisted she sit with them to learn the responsibilities that came with position. Thankfully, not today.
--#--
From inside the inn, boisterous conversations buzzed against her ear, and the smell of hearth and pipe smoke borne on salt-tinged air tickled her nose. Heart thumping like a drum, she paused at the inn door, lute in hand, taking it all in. The joy in her life came from simple things, unlike the weighty expectations of being a lord’s daughter.
Here I am free to be me.
She pushed the door open and took in the evening’s crowd. For all the rambunctious noise, the inn’s crowd was sparse for a Tensday. And none of those present were her own age—tomorrow’s toil would come soon enough, and those her age were already home tending to more domestic duties while their elders drank to stave off the drudge of tomorrow’s labors.
It’s not as if it matters. Those her age gave her a wide berth; no one wanted to risk offending the lord’s daughter.
She entered, and Jorge at the bar gave his usual gap-toothed grin and welcoming wave. “Come to grace us with song, Miss Alywyn?”
“Of course,” she said, her smile as wide as the happiness she felt. “But also for news.”
“Ach. Nothing new. Won’t be ‘nother ship ‘til tomorrow at earliest.”
“Oh. I had hoped to hear more of the grik and nadir raids near Bres.”
The barman nodded, wiping at a counter cleaner than the rag he wielded. “Not heard much more’n what was said yesterday, Miss Alywyn.”
The others had noticed her arrival, and a chorus erupted from them, “Give us a song, Alywyn!”
Warmth spread through her, their call and acceptance resonating more than her mother’s strict demands for perfection. The emphatic demands from the patrons lifted her spirits, and what emerged was the only perfection she cared about.
Oh, sons, listen to your mother’s words,
those bits of wisdom from cradle heard,
of love and lullabies,
of fleecy clouds and endless skies,
that filled a boy with awe.
Of all his distant yesterdays
in all the words a mother says
putting bandage to wounded knee
all the words she ever said to thee
when tucking her little boy in against the night.
But now he’s a man fully grown
and all the boyhood fancies known
long lost to his manly sight
a distant memory of his mother’s word,
yes, the distant sounds a boy once heard
of dragons and faerie’s wings,
of silvered knights and noble kings,
oh, the wonders that once filled his head
in the words his mother said ...
Yes ...
in the words his mother said ...
“More, more!” the crowd cried. So she indulged them. And herself.
Time flew faster than her string-plying fingers, and all too soon it was time for evening sup. And the nightly harangue. She sighed and bundled her lute, and inside, like the now-encased instrument, she bundled up her joy.
--#--
[BBC 23 First Crop 1296 Godspawn]
The crow of a rooster brought her awake in a trice.
She swung her legs out from under the covers, stretched, and yawned. She tended to her morning routine, distantly aware of some out-of-place sound. As she pulled on her frock and slid her feet into her clogs, she paused, canting her head, and tried to discern the source of the fleeting, discordant noise.
Was that the peal of the chapel’s bell?
Strain as she might, she heard no further ringing, and she shrugged it off as the last remnant of slumber. She clattered her way, humming and skipping, from her turret room to the kitchen. The customary bowl of oats steamed on the table and her stomach rumbled at the smell’s taunt. Her favorite, laden with apples, nuts and topped with a dash of nutmeg. Of her father and mother, there was no sign. Indeed, even the cook was absent.
That’s odd. Usually Dela stays until I am done.
She made quick work of the morning gruel. The day’s tasks flooded her mind as she licked the bowl clean.
Corn, barley, and wheat to be reaped today, with me to oversee the tally. She gave a low groan. The second day of autumn marked a busy time on the Blackmoor-Bressian calendar. Shucking and threshing kernel from chaff. It looks to be a long day. A longer month. Alas, there will be no time to spend lute-playing at the inn.
She slid from the table and made her way to the entryway. Her mind preoccupied with the day’s chores, she swung the stout oaken door open and moved out onto the steps leading to the manse’s courtyard.
She came to an abrupt stop.
A cacophony supplanted the usual sounds of early morning. Shouting and the din of destruction filled the air. In the distance, the village’s chapel bell rang, its urgent clamor swirling and muted in the roiling morning fog. A piercing, distant scream cut through the morning’s vapors; vapors filled with the scent and taste of charr. She blinked, trying to make sense of it all.
Her father stood at the top of the stone steps, drawn to his towering height with fists planted on his hips. She took refuge behind his back and peered out around his protective bulk.
Her mouth fell open as she spied at least a score of soldiers in the courtyard. The drawn visors of their helms left only the severe set of their mouths exposed to view. Their surcoats bore the margrave’s checkered colors of green and black, and upon their shields was the coiled serpent of House Whytside. Many of them bore crossbows, the weapons aimed menacingly at her father.
And at me!
Before the troop stood the margrave who oversaw the bannermen such as her father. A feral grin split his face, topped by the burning black embers of his eyes with his dark, spade-like pointed beard beneath. She shuddered, tightening her grip on her father’s waist. The land drawing the enshrouding mist to its bosom of a morning had taken on a more sinister cast.
“Glynn d’Winter, step you forth to answer the charges against you,” Margrave Whytside called out.
The harshness of his voice cracked like a whip against her ear. Her throat tightened, and her stomach knotted. Charges? What charges?
The margrave’s previous visit had been far different from the unfolding scene. Then the margrave and his party celebrated the harvest festival, the night filled with merriment and revelry. Her stomach heaved, and she swallowed the bile of her breakfast gathering in her throat.
“I can hear you just fine from these steps.” She heard her father’s snort and the defiance in his reply. “I know what charges you have trumped and who holds your leash, dog.”
“Sedition and treason against the king ...” the margrave resumed, his eyes glaring.
Treason? Father? What nonsense is this?
Her father’s hand reached back to nudge her, and he hissed a low warning. “Go, my Rose, fetch your mother, and away to the tunnel.”
She turned to do her father’s bidding, reaching the door in two quick steps. Straining, she pulled against the weight of it. A crossbow’s ominous mechanical twang sounded amid the distant sounds of carnage. The bolt whizzed by her ear to embed itself in the door frame’s stout timbers with a loud thunk.
“Another step of your girl, d’Winter, and the next shall be twixt her shoulders.”
She froze there, knowing she could slip through before the flight of a bolt could find her. I can’t leave Father to face them alone!
“This is an outrage, Whytside! I demand a hearing at Meet.”
The margrave’s voice hissed like the snake emblem of his House and filled with threat and disdain. “You are in a position to demand nothing, d’Winter.”
An icy shiver ran down her spine, and she fought the urge to cry out. In that moment, the manor’s courtyard seemed to exist in a world of its own, surrounded by writhing wisps of fog filled with sounds of bedlam.
“Seize him! If the girl moves, kill her,” Whytside commanded.
“You daren’t harm a thirteen-year-old girl! Have you no honor?”
Almost fourteen! her mind objected, but her mouth did not utter.
“The likes of you deserve no honor. Seize her. Send a detail into the manor. I want Lady d’Winter here as well!”
“You ruffians needn’t bother. Here I am. I would not have my hall sullied by filth the likes of you.” Her mother’s voice, filled with icy disapproval, reached across the way like a hurled dagger.
She watched her mother step from the shadows of the open doorway. She stood there in regal splendor, severe disapproval carved into her face. Her own fear diminished as her mother’s hands gave her shoulders a gentle squeeze, along with her murmured reassurance. “Be strong, Alywyn. I love you.”
Six men left the ranks encircling the entry’s steps, and a pair moved to seize each of them. She was too shocked to resist. In short order, held by strong and rough hands, they stood before the margrave at the courtyard’s center. Whytside stroked his spade of a beard, his gloating eyes savoring the moment.
“Let them go, Whytside,” her father implored.
“I have my orders, d’Winter,” the margrave snapped. “Leave none alive to tell the tale. Pity. I take fancy to your daughter and wife.”
“Leave them be, you craven coward! Give me a blade, you cur, and meet me face to face!”
The margrave barked a short laugh and drew his dirk, slashing crosswise at her father’s belly. “There’s your blade, d’Winter.”
Time froze. In that moment, she could see every droplet of her father’s blood strung in a red-hazed arc in the blade’s wake. The sight blurred as a rush of tears distorted her vision. Her stomach gave another heave at the sight of blood erupting from an abdomen rent asunder.
Her mind whirled as cold bands gripped her heart, and she panted for breath. The dimming tears became a torrent that further distorted an already incomprehensible scene.
Her mother’s banshee wail filled her ears. “Bastards!”
Despite being held, she raised a trembling hand to wipe her eyes and clear her vision. As her sight regained some focus, she saw the soldiers free her father’s arms. Eyes wide, she gasped and watched as he fell to his hands and knees, his entrails spilling onto the cobbles in a bloody heap.
Whytside bent and cupped her father’s chin and lifted it. “You shall live long enough to see all you love despoiled, d’Winter.”
“Damn you.” The curse was a pain-filled grunt laced with contempt.
“It seems you are the one who is damned, d’Winter.”
He turned to his captain and ordered, “The men deserve some sport. Despoil them both in front of this traitorous dog. Then kill them, leave no one in Candor alive. You know what to do.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” the captain replied, thumping his right fist to his chest. Whytside’s fingers withdrew from her father’s chin. Brushing his palms, he stood and spun on his heel.
“Father!” she managed as realization finally crashed in.
“You ball-less bastards!” her mother screamed in full fury.
She watched aghast as the men dragged her mother to the hay cart before the stables. One man laughed; a sound filled with ill-intent. The hot wetness of her tears flowed across her cheeks as her sobs erupted, escaping from her stricken heart.
At the rear of the cart, a soldier gripped the neck of her mother’s gown and tugged. The man’s violent act ripped the finely woven cloth, and he tossed the garment aside. The soldier turned his attention to stripping her mother’s camisole and lace bottom.
“Oi, look at this, boys! Truly a noble arse, this one!”
Her breath caught as she watched her mother’s naked form pushed back into the cart. The soldier clambered in after her mother. His eager fingers went to work, peeling off his helm, surcoat, belt, and finally his chain hauberk. He grinned at his companions as he discarded his codpiece and shed his woolens.
As much as she wished to close her eyes against the unfolding horror, she couldn’t—the shock of it was hypnotic and surreal. She could only whimper and stare. The soldier, clad only in arming doublet, mounted her mother, gripping each pale leg and wrenching them apart. Her mother struggled, her body writhing and bucking, her cries falling on deaf ears.
“Oi, we shall enjoy this, yer ladyship!”
She cried out as the man thrust his hips forward between her mother’s thighs and tried to turn her head away. She whimpered again as the soldier on her left twined a hand in her hair, jerking her head toward the unfolding horror.
“Be yer turn next,” the man holding her right arm murmured, his voice filled with vile anticipation. She struggled, trying to pull from his grasp. His laugh rang against her ear as he cuffed her.
“Be still.”
The assailant’s head darted to kiss her mother’s snarling mouth, a deep groan of mounting need escaping his searching lips. She again struggled against the arms holding her and received a painful elbow to her ribs as a reward.
She watched in round-eyed revulsion as her mother freed a hand during her writhing resistance and grasped the man’s poignard from his discarded belt. A silvery blur and the steel edge sliced into the artery of the soldier’s neck. A fountain of blood spewed, showering the soldier’s toppling corpse and her mother’s prostrate form.
Oh, Holy Ten! This can’t be happening!
The soldier holding her mother’s right arm loosened his grip and drew his blade; the sound of rasping steel rang overloudly through the distant sounds of Candor’s destruction. Snarling, he stabbed it downward, the sword’s hilt held in both hands. So violent was the blow the blade impaled her mother between the breasts and embedded itself in the cart beneath.
Her mother gasped a long sigh of disbelief. Her last act, a feeble raising of her now-freed hands, clutched at the blade before they fell away in death. She screamed her grief, trying to tear herself free and rush to her mother’s side. Her attempt failed as soon as it began, as the grip on her arms tightened.
A harsh laugh rushed hot against her ear. “Yer ma’s done fer, girl. Shame t’waste such a tasty morsel.”
Her mother lay there arms and legs akimbo, head back on her neck with mouth opened in a wide O of shock.
The vigor of life had fled her mother’s eyes, the warm brown glazing over as she surrendered to Nystor’s embrace. She gave a woeful shriek as her mother’s blood flowed around the impaling blade and pooled in a crimson circle around her corpse.
She wailed out her anguish, “Mother! You ... you bastards!”
A soldier’s gauntleted backhand caught her alongside the head and sent the world spinning amid motes of black and red. She would have dropped like a stone had not two pairs of iron-thewed arms held her upright.
“Mind your tongue, little bitch. For ’tis your turn next.”
She fought and twisted like a she-cat. But they were men, soldiers in their prime; she was but a slip of a girl, barely on the threshold of womanhood. Despite her attempts, she was half dragged, half carried kicking and screaming to the cart.
“Don’t fight it, luv.” The soldier twisted her arm behind her, sending agony blazing through her shoulder.
Don’t, please stop. Please stop.
Two soldiers had already wrested the blade free and disposed of her mother’s body in a heap on the courtyard’s cobbles. Their dead comrade soon joined her mother on the ground.
She continued to writhe and try twisting free, but the effort proved futile. She wailed her terror as the men secured her limbs. In the distance, she heard a gurgling cry of outrage from her father.
As with her mother’s gown before, they tore her frock from her and tossed it aside. Shame flushed her now-exposed flesh as the damp, cool air of morning assailed her skin. But the chill in the air was milder by far than the icy grip that froze her mind.
Ten, no, this cannot be happening!
The stickiness of her mother’s blood wetted her back as the men manhandled her into the cart. Her stomach lurched and her throat went tighter, and her heart thumped against her chest. A muscled hand gripped her throat, choking off her screams, and pinned her head against the cart’s rough planks. No. No. No. No. Fear reigned supreme as the reality of what was happening raced through her shocked mind.
Before she realized it, the soldier was already on her. The reek of his hot breath rushed over her face as his violent, lust-fevered kiss crushed against her lips. There was a stabbing, searing pain from beneath her waist. She screamed and tried to free an arm as her mother had done.
The trooper laughed and redoubled his thrusting. From her periphery, she was aware of a blur of movement. The armored fist struck alongside her head and, for the second time, motes of red and black filled her world. A distant part of her mind realized a second soldier had replaced the first.
Then the next and the next. No. No. No!
A surreal chain of brutal assault wove itself into a twisted, blurred fabric. There was no keeping count as she faded in and out of awareness. Each moment of clarity reaffirmed the ongoing nightmare.
Her breakfast joined the swirled pool of her mother’s blood at some point, spewing across her chest. Despite its foulness, the men continued their assault. The world spun as she teetered on the edge of her sensibilities. Finally, overwhelmed by the relentless onslaught, she fell into oblivion’s clutches.
“Make sure she is dead after you are done, lads.” The captain’s voice echoed in the darkened halls of surrender that dragged her under.
--#--
Her head pounded with each beat of her heart. She was aware of being pulled by her legs. Beach sand, shell fragments, and pebbles ground at her back like a grater against soft cheese.
Along the beach spit south of Candor, if the sound of the surf and the fish-scented air are any sign.
She bit her lip against the grating pain cutting at her flesh. Vague memories tugged at her awakening. Her breath caught in her throat as she fought to suppress them. She willed her eyes to stay closed and tried to still her trembling.
Oh, by the Ten! They’re going to kill me. Fylis, save me! Adon? Any of you? I don’t want to die.
“Here aught do it, y’think? Spread ‘em far ‘n wide, Cap’n said,” came a voice.
“Don’t fancy draggin’ this bitch further,” the voice of a second said.
“Look yon, you two,” interjected a third, “A fishing boat.”
“So?” answered the voice of the second.
“I can be to the far side o’ the bay an’ back ‘fore I’m missed if you two cover fer me.”
“Why would we do that, ya daft loon?” the first scoffed.
“Coin, ya simple-minded idjit,” the third retorted, “I know a place almost direct across the bay where we ... I ... can sells her. A hundred Crowns at least t’split ‘mongst us an’ no one the wiser.”
“A hundrit Crowns, ya certain?” the second queried.
“For a lass like this, aye, mos’ likely!” the third assured.
“So wot we do whilst ya be gone?” the first asked.
“Spread them nadir corpses hither an’ yon like the Cap’n said. A hundred Crowns t’us an’ none the wiser!” pitched the third.
“Right then, eh Frid? Hundrit Crowns! That be a fair bit, eh?” The second cajoled the first.
“’Tis a fair bit. All right then, but don’t ya be dawdlin’. There an’ back ‘gain fast as ya can,” the first acceded.
“Done. Shared equal! The extra Crown t’me for me troubles,” the third crowed. “Now come on, lads. Let’s get this wisp o’ treasure on the boat, eh?”
Two of them hoisted her over the fishing boat’s side and dumped her unceremoniously onto the boat’s bottom. Netting, reeking of dead fish, fell over her unclothed figure.
Praise Fylis! There’s hope still.
The three struggled as they pushed the boat out into the surf. Their grunts and curses cut through the sound of the sea’s rushing hiss. A series of incoming waves rocked the boat, and she struggled to remain still. Her head struck the bench above as the craft broached sidelong into a rogue wave. For the second time, her world swirled into blackness.
--#--
She awoke, again being dragged by her legs.
Coarse grass and dirt grated against her bare flesh. She stifled the urge to cry out and feigned unconsciousness. The third-voiced man’s rough hand patted her cheek, and his reeking murmur was loud against her ear as he propped her against a rough timber wall.
“Don’t be goin’ nowheres, m’darlin’. Ol’ Dongal got a bargain t’make inside. Be still now, m’pretty, bein’ solt better’n bein’ dead.”
She heard his retreating steps and the bang of a door.
Being sold? Ten forbid! I must ... I must ...
Her eyes flickered open. The night was moonsless and clouds scudded overhead. The only light trickled through a narrow window above her. Frantically, she took in her surroundings.
Night already? Now’s your chance, Aly! Escape!
She stood as quickly as her cold- and abuse-stiffened joints allowed. The world spun by and she put trembling hands on her knees, waiting for her vision to clear. The day’s events swirled in her mind, and she tried to bury the thoughts like a miser shoves their last coin deeper into their pocket.
In a lean-to nearby, she heard a nickering and moved to its source. Her fingers urgently explored in the almost dark. A saddled horse! Fylis be praised!
Her fingers continued their frantic exploration. Across the saddlebow, her fingers danced across folds of rough cloth. She lifted it close to her eyes. A tabard!
Beneath it, hung on the pommel, she found a belt bearing a sheathed dagger. She slipped the tattered tabard over her head, poking her arms through the sleeveless, slitted sides, and snugged the belt and knife around her waist.
Away, Aly, we must be away!
Whispering in the horse’s ear, she swung into the saddle, ignoring her body’s aching complaint. She nudged her bare heels to the horse’s ribs and off they went into the uncertain night. She coaxed the horse up a rough trace leading to a wider path; her knees steering the mount along the twisting path as quickly as safety allowed.
Time passed. How much, she wasn’t sure, but her racing heart stilled its wild beating in her chest.
Get away, Aly! Get away!
Away from the life that had come crashing down around her. Away from the conspiring of rival Houses. Away, wrapped in shame. Away from the swirling nightmare events she did not dare recall. Away, just to escape the swirl of emotions she could not bear to sort or let escape.
As if in a mocking tribute, the land shrouded itself in swirling mists. The cold, clutching tendrils of fog matching the cold iron bands clutching at her heart. And to complement the coming and going of her tears, the rain drizzled mournfully down from time to time to further chill her already benumbed body.
She rode through the day, the horror of Candor’s destruction assaulting her reeling senses. Rode through a surreal landscape, trapped in a nightmare that wasn’t a dream. Gloomy night gave way to a gloomy day. Furlongs passed and then leagues as the dismal day wore on. Embroiled in the darkness of the recent past, her eyes were oblivious to the changes. The gray, somber day again had darkened around her.
Where do I go? Who can I trust?
No one, some distant thought insisted.
I can’t alone ... some part of her hedged.
Why slaughter all of Candor? The question lingered, a resounding why echoing against the jumbled memory.
An ancient tale’s words whispered back. Dead men tell no tales. Too many ships, too many loose lips uttering truth to visiting sailors. Can it be for so callous a reason?
The horse, tired from its long hours on the road, had slowed to a slow shuffle of hooves, confused by the slackness of the reins and the slump of his rider. The horse plodded on, following the road.
A road winding its way from the seacoast, to rolling farmlands and scattered copses, vineyards, and orchards, and into a now-darkened ghostly, mist- and rain-dripping evergreen forest.
--#--
[BBC 24 First Crop 1296 Godspawn]
“Oi!” called a voice at the edge of her mental fog. “Wha’ ha’ we here, mate?”
“Sum’un to loot?” came another’s hopeful rumble.
The sudden flare of torchlight dazzled her dazed, tear-swollen eyes. “Nah, Bill! A woman! Fylis be praised, and she be a young’un and near-nekkid!”
Hands clutched at her, pulling her from the horse even as her swirling brain tried to return to nightmarish reality. Feebly, she tried to fend off the strong clutching hands with her cold-numbed arms. Her efforts were far too late.
He was too strong, and she was too feeble. She cried out her dismay as the man yanked her from the saddle. She landed in a dizzying spin onto sopping wet pine needles covering the muddy track beneath.
The rush of air from her lungs cut her cry of terror short.
She gave up any pretense of struggle as the heavy weight of a man pressed upon her hips. He yanked her arms over her head and pinned them to the ground with hard, calloused hands. His face was deep in shadow under his dark, dripping hood, but his breath was a fetid stench that assailed her nostrils and caused her stomach to retch.
From behind the shadowy form that straddled her, her fear-opened eyes saw the bulk of the one named Bill shrouded menacingly in the night’s mist and drizzle.
The man atop her forced her wrists together, holding them pinned over her head with one hand. His free hand clawed its way up under the tabard, fondling her flesh roughly, until it pawed at her budding breasts.
She bucked then, failing to free her hands, but managing a knee to the man’s groin. His breath whooshed out in a sour cloud that gagged her, but his hand on her wrists went slack and she tried twisting away.
“Stupid bitch,” muttered the one named Bill.
As she squirmed free, her face toward the dim outline of the looming man, she made out a darker blur. Too late, she saw Bill’s leather boot kicking at her head.
Pain exploded across her face, and limbo’s darkness claimed her.
--#--
Her head pounded. Every pulse of her heart brought searing agony. Behind swollen lips, she tasted blood in her mouth. She lay still, assaying her injuries. Her body ached everywhere, her face and ribs foremost. And from between her legs came the ache of relentless assault. Clenching her teeth, she dared to peep open her eyes.
Eye.
Only one worked, the other refused to open. Darkness spun around her. She blinked to clear her vision, and a campsite swam into a fuzzy semblance of focus. By the flickering light of the fire’s remains, she saw two slumbering men.
They wore neither pants nor boots, nude from the waist down. From the men, their unwashed smell, and the fresher odor of spirits rose to beset her nose. Reverberating snores came from them both. A violent shiver swept through her, and looking downward, she realized she was naked.
Ten, move now, Aly, or you’re done for.
She turned her head, scanning the small clearing. Each move brought a redoubled pounding to her head.
There. Yes, those are my things. The belt ... the dagger.
She crawled, her vision going dark for a moment with the pain it brought. She ground her teeth together to stifle the moan swelling and threatening to erupt from her throat. Inch by inch, pausing in her crawl to fight the spinning view and the pain erupting white hot in her head, she crept to the belt.
Her trembling fingers found the hilt of the dagger and drew it from its sheath. She lay there, panting from the effort, while mist and rain mingled with the sweat of her exertion.
As before, she inched her way across the ground toward the two sleeping men. Her body trembled with fear, pain, and from the night’s damp, numbing cold.
She reached the first of them, raising the dagger, its point wavering in her unsteady hand. Inhaling deeply, she measured the rhythm of her pounding head, and thrust the tip of the blade into the man’s throat.
His life ended in a spewing gurgle, showering her with the hotness of his blood mixed with alcoholic bile.
She looked at the other man, feeling another wave of dizziness and pain pulse through her. She let out a muted gasp, sucking in air to clear her head.
Inch by painful inch, she repeated the process.
Fumbling fingers struggled to heed her demands as she strove to clothe herself. Several times she slipped into blackness, only to recover and continue. With the tabard donned and secured by the belt, she dragged herself to the fire and again slipped into the clutching arms of nothingness.
--#--
Something cold and wet struck her forehead. Then another, the splat of the water drip loud in her ears. Her eye fluttered open, swam out of focus, and then cleared to reveal an evergreen bough high above.
Splat.
She groaned, aware as she awakened to the pains that coursed through her body and head.
What’s wrong with my eye? My face? Where in all Perdition am I?
Her head throbbed with the effort as she pushed to raise herself. She blinked to clear her wavering vision. She retched, a watery acidic trickle, and her stomach rumbled its protest.
Slowly, her hand clutching her battered head, she sat. The world spun again, her stomach lurched, and pain again lanced through her head. Shuddering, she raised her left hand, her fingertips exploring the swollen flesh on the side of her face.
Beams of sunlight streamed through the morning’s mists, the boughs above diffusing the shafts of its light and lent subdued illumination to the small clearing amid the evergreens.
Sometime well after dawn, but still morn.
She pressed her right palm against her pounding head. It was then her gaze fell upon the still forms of two half-naked men.
What in all Fara’s creation is going on here?
Her memory refused to provide an immediate answer.
She stood slowly on her unsteady legs, wobbling like a newborn foal. Her stomach heaved again and again her bitter bile spewed onto the ground.
Ten, take me ... I’m dying, I think.
She blinked, finding herself once more on hands and knees.
All right, Aly. A breath. A deep one and another.
The rain-freshened, pine-scented air poured into her lungs and helped to ease the pain in her head. Steeling herself, she stood again. The clearing spun for a moment but steadied after several deep breaths.
A burned-out smolder of a campfire revealed two recumbent men. Dead.
Eye widening, she noted their throats had been slit. My doing?
She shook her head, regretting the movement for the pain it brought.
Hand covering her mouth, she turned her eye from their half-nakedness, wondering at the surge of revulsion sweeping through her. She continued her scan and made out the outline of the horse amid the misty shadows a few dozen paces away. Its head lowered and pulling at some coarse grass, it was oblivious to her plight.
Taking a deep breath, she stumbled towards the two men, fighting the urge to throw up. She searched the two and their belongings, taking her time to avoid aggravating the hurts that her body incessantly reported.
There was a threadbare knapsack with a hodgepodge of items. Aside from dried meats and fruits, and a full waterskin, there was little else of use.
Jumbled next to the men near the firepit, atop two tattered cloaks, were their other scant belongings. A rusted short sword dappled with morning dew glistened dully in the filtered sunlight. A brace of daggers in crude sheaths. Topping the pile were their much-patched hide pants and leather boots, whose best days were long behind them.
The men only wore threadbare jerkins, their last washing relegated to distant history. Truly, their possessions are as meager as my own.
She drank from the waterskin. At first sipping, then gulping to quench her thirst. She took sparing bites of the dried meat and fruit. Each chew brought a slow throbbing pain from her head and an intense ache from her jaw. She forced herself to eat anyway, knowing she needed their sustenance.
Sated at last, her gaze turned again to the horse, and seeing it content, she turned her attention to herself. Slowly, she lifted the tabard and worked it upward from where it hung just below her knee. She gasped as her thighs came into sight, seeing the creamy white of her skin mottled purple, black, and green, and showing the pattern of rough and gripping hands.
She stared at the marks. As she raised the tabard further, she cried out in alarm. Bruises and welts adorned her ribs, and the mark of bites blemished the smooth swell of her nascent breasts.
Bastards! She mumbled the oath, letting the tabard tumble back down as the realization of what the men had done to her struck home.
A flush spread over her cheeks and she sobbed. The release of her emotions brought only a renewed bout of complaint from her jaw, swollen eye, and throbbing head. She took a deep breath. Then another.
Think on the next steps, Aly, not the ones already trod.
Steeling herself, she worked her unsteady way across the clearing to where the horse regarded her with equine curiosity. “Oh, it’s me, you four-legged twit.”
The horse’s ears flicked at the murmur of her voice, and it snorted an answer, pawing at the grass.
“All right, boy, shh now. So, where in all Perdition is the road?”
She continued soothing it, stroking its nose to calm its skittishness. The horse answered with another nicker and toss of its head. After a bit of prancing, the horse settled itself.
“Right. If I heard an answer from you, I’d have to wonder at the soundness of my head, wouldn’t I?” She snickered, cutting her laugh short as her aching head pulsed its painful objection.
“If my head’s right to begin with.”
She continued calming the horse as she packed the few things worth keeping in the saddlebags. Grasping the bridle as firmly as her shaking hand would allow, she carefully lifted her left foot to the stirrup, and swung herself toward the saddle.
A wave of dizziness swept over her, and only a sudden grab at the pommel and tightening her grip on the reins kept her from falling. Holding the bridle with both hands, she settled into the saddle. She clung there, panting, and gave the horse’s neck a pat as it skittered sideways beneath her.
She thought of her predicament and her location. If she surmised correctly, the road led onward southwest to Bres, through a rising, narrowing vale mounting to a pass. If she recalled the map in her father’s study accurately. Given the state of her head, she wasn’t sure.
So, southwest it will be. Fylis, guide me!
Go home, Aly, part of her mind told her.
I have no home, she answered herself.
I must go on. I must. Somehow, some day, I’ll avenge you, Father. Mother.
“Come on, boy. With luck, we’ll make the pass just after midday.”
With that, she gave the horse a nudge of her knees and heels, and with a light tug of the reins, it obligingly plodded along the rutted forest road.
--#--
The soft fall of a hoof on the road brought Tann’s head up. Her hand shot out to reclaim the spear propped against the tree beside her. Her hand ceased its abrupt grab as suddenly as it had begun. Tann gave a surprised grunt. A mere slip of a girl was reeling in the saddle astride a chestnut gelding. She took stock of the girl with a practiced eye as she moved.
Long, blonde hair clotted with blood streamed unkempt over much of the girl’s face. Her head lolled on her shoulders and her body slumped almost onto the horse’s neck.
A worn black leather belt bearing a sheath revealed a dagger’s hilt, and secured a tattered, sleeveless tabard with open sides. The short coat had ridden up, exposing a much-bruised thigh. The girl’s feet were bare and begrimed.
Head stove and face swolled, and e’en wi’ a ill-fit tabard, can see she be bearin’ hurt ‘neath it. And damn me ears if the wretch ain’t singin’ like a loon!
What words the girl sang were indistinguishable to Tann’s ear. Nor did she worry herself in understanding the slurred song as she approached the plodding horse.
“Hoi!” she called out over her shoulder to alert the others of the caravan.
Two long strides and she was beside the horse, taking hold of its bridle and pulling the beast up short. Even so gentle a stop caused the girl to topple from the horse. With a curse that would have withered the ears of a cloistered monk, she reached to catch the falling girl, grunting as the slight weight settled in her arms.
“Somebody fetch that drunken wretch o’ a healer!”
Tann carried the limp form toward their breaking camp. Up close, she realized that the girl’s wounds were more dire than she had first appraised. Damn it all, she’ll be dead within the hour, I’ll wager. A scant dozen years if a day. So young, so fair. And for damn-sure, far too young to be deservin’ death.
She carried the battered girl as if she were a basket of eggs. Merchants and travelers, and of course the other guards, paused in their midday activities to watch. So pale the girl’s skin was; cold and clammy to Tann’s own touch, and so feeble the rise of the girl’s chest as she labored to breathe.
“Dammit to Perdition! By Adon’s blasted balls, where is that healer?”
“Hoi, Tann! Whatcha got there?” called out a fellow guard.
“Girl on the brink o’ dyin’, ya layabout. Go fetch me that ...” She cut her retort short as the fat friar came into view.
The holy man’s tonsured pate gleamed in the noonday sun, bathed in sweat, as was his moonish face. But his eyes seemed lucid enough in her estimation.
The friar gave the girl in Tann’s arms a quick survey, and he motioned for her to set the girl on the ground. Tann answered him with a curt nod and eased the unconscious girl onto a patch of grass.
“Heh. You there,” the sweating healer called out to the onlooking mercenary, “bring me an ale!”
“What, ya gonna bathe ‘er innit?” he snorted.
“No, you sword-carrying dolt, I am going to drink it! Then I am going to mend the child.”
He followed his reply with a merry grin and a wink at Tann. The bulk of the friar shook from his low rumbling laugh as he continued his visual examination. From her stoop beside the girl, Tann looked up at the healer and scowled.
The friar saw her look and his grin broadened.
“What, have ye no faith in Adon’s healing powers and the wholesome and holy goodness of ale?”
“Healin’ this ‘un be takin’ a toll on ya, Joel. Girl be sore hurt.”
“Right you are. Three ales ought to do it.”
Had the friar not been a widely traveled and worldly man, he would have blushed at Tann’s scathing reply.
--#--
Idyllic pictures make for pretty sights. But those who have experienced life know for every captured image an artist sets to canvas, there is a shadow not depicted. A picture’s smooth brush upon a canvas hides rougher edges reality wields to cut deep into the soul of experience.
No, life does not stand still, it moves on. Idyllic pictures are fleeting things of our memory. In the furrows of the image, the shadows plant the seeds of darkness.
— Alywyn d’Winter: Journal
Rose of Sorrows is centered around the life of Alywyn d'Winter, the daughter of a nobleman from the small island of Candor. She is a bright and happy thirteen-year old, not yet out of childhood, enjoying singing, the natural splendor of her home, the special bond she shares with her kind father, and slowly learning about the world beyond her home and the tasks of a noblewoman who will need to take care of her demesne. Her idyllic life is shattered and her innocence brutally stolen as an unfortunate result of the changing tides of politics in the Northern kingdoms, in a scene that becomes one of many that is hard to read and permanently shifts the tone of the story.
Barely escaping with her life after experiencing the unspeakable, Alywyn starts going by Rose to conceal her noble identity - her middle name and her father's affectionate nickname for her, and her story has only just begun. As she faces more betrayal and suffering, with the occasional glimpse of human kindness, life takes her further and further from her home, to faraway places she only knew from her lessons with her tutors. Instead of vaguely learning about the politics that shape the many nations of Anarond from scrolls and parchments, she is forced to live the reality of the different cultures and species that populate the planet. Sold into slavery, kept as a pet, tortured for sport, dehumanized and objectified, each encounter teaches her something as she sheds every last layer of her innocence and fights to become more than a pawn of circumstance.
Each of Rose's travels reveals more of the rich and layered worldbuilding in the story: from the Northern Kingdoms steeped in royal intrigue, to the scorching sands of Calis and its House of Pleasures, The Rift where the nal-Trebin lead a bloodthirsty existence and stew in their hatred of humanity, the Glades of eternal spring where the Aerid ponder the possibilities and probabilities the future brings, the forests where the brave Stalwart gather to protect the innocent. And even beyond all that lies the mysterious realm of Shadow that few know about and even fewer can navigate.
The worldbuilding is a true labor of love, with incredible detail about each nation's timekeeping, religion, currency, politics, culture and way of life.
The tone of the book shifts as Rose grows and trades her naivete for experience, as her childlike wonder is replaced with resolve. She takes on many roles through her life, most of them not by choice: slave, sex worker, wife, mother, noblewoman, avenger, spy, assassin, and they all challenge her views on free will and obligation, as she ponders whether she ever truly broke her chains and won real agency for herself. Once she starts learning the truth about the various species and the balance of power on Anarond, there is no going back - she already walks in Shadow, on the precipice between Light and Dark, and she has not only known Sorrow, but become Sorrow. There is such poetry in her journey to become a figure somehow larger than life, but still so completely human in the way she is aware of her flaws and moral greyness.
The characters Rose encounters are just as complex and intriguing as she is, with some standouts including her close friend Ehlise, the Stalwart Dael and Kin, the kind and motherly Ing, the cruel and bloodthirsty nal-Trebin Virsyla, the poised and wise Sapphira, the jolly ale-loving friar Joel, the curious scholar Minras.
One very minor point of criticism about the writing - Rose is constantly only referred to as "she", and only other characters (and her inner monologue) ever say her name, or one of her names. This is a bold and meaningful stylistic choice, but can lead to some confusion in scenes where there are multiple female characters, and it isn't always clear who the "she" is.
The exploration of trauma and what suffering can turn people into also takes center stage, as the story poses an interesting moral question, one of many: would you rather forget the horrible things that have happened to you, or allow yourself to remember them and let them shape you into someone you can barely reconcile with who you used to be? The way Friar Joel's magic works (and the reason he needs so much ale) is the first inkling of the cost of special powers, a point that is further driven home with the Sisters of Sorrow.
There are some scenes of violence, torture and sexual assault that are very difficult to sit with, but fit the tone and message of the story. The first extremely violent scene hits the hardest, as this is where Rose first loses her childlike innocence, and there is something chilling about the way the reader grows a thicker skin along with Rose as the focus shifts from the events themselves to how they shape who Rose becomes.
Rose of Sorrows is not only exceptionally immersive and wildly entertaining, but cuts deep in its exploration of existential questions.
There is practically no end to the themes that are explored in depth in this wonderful book, and they often represent two extremes that Rose and the other characters walk between and often fall into - Dexter and Sinister, Light and Darkness: resilience and despair, free will and captivity, forgiveness and vengeance, kindness and evil, remembering and forgetting, sacrifice and selfishness. Just as there's a feeling of understanding about the depth of intrigue, further layers and even higher stakes are revealed, which keeps the story fresh and dynamic. Threads that start at the beginning of the story are taken up later on and fall into place in an ever-richer tapestry, and raise further questions that will hopefully be answered in future installments.