The Provenance (Book One of Astarâs Blade)
All his life, Almon knew, the Plum-Kilmer family had been haunted by spirits of the dead. For over 250 years, the ghost had cursed his family, but not Almon. Thinking the curse had finally run its course and may have skipped him. when the ghost finally does come, it strains his sanity. Unprepared, in growing madness, he is driven to the mountains. There, the ghost waits for him, either trying to save him or lead him to his doom.
This is the story of the Provenance, the Origin of Gods, Ghosts, and Demons who created an imperfect world. The story of forbidden knowledge, of unseen forces designed to stay hidden from mortals. If you continue, be warned, they know when they are being observed, and powerful enough to curse those foolhardy enough to be the observers.
So, open the pages carefully, dear reader, and prepare yourself, for the Provenance.
The Provenance (Book One of Astarâs Blade)
All his life, Almon knew, the Plum-Kilmer family had been haunted by spirits of the dead. For over 250 years, the ghost had cursed his family, but not Almon. Thinking the curse had finally run its course and may have skipped him. when the ghost finally does come, it strains his sanity. Unprepared, in growing madness, he is driven to the mountains. There, the ghost waits for him, either trying to save him or lead him to his doom.
This is the story of the Provenance, the Origin of Gods, Ghosts, and Demons who created an imperfect world. The story of forbidden knowledge, of unseen forces designed to stay hidden from mortals. If you continue, be warned, they know when they are being observed, and powerful enough to curse those foolhardy enough to be the observers.
So, open the pages carefully, dear reader, and prepare yourself, for the Provenance.
The Mid-Run Valley in the Year 1040 of Human Recorded Time (HRT)
Almon looked back at just the right moment to see his father fall off his horse. He saw Erland tumbling hard in a billowing cloud of dust. With rising panic in his chest, Almon leaped off his horse and ran back to help him. Fearing the worst for taking too long, he finally slid on his knees, reaching his father.
Erland sat in the field, dazed and dusty, repeatedly mumbling, âI am ready to die.â
He patted the dust from his fatherâs body, searching him for broken bones. âDid you break anything?â
âLeave me alone. Let me die here.â
âListen to me, listen. You are not going to die.â Almon reached his arms under Erlandâs and dragged him out of the sun, and into the shade of a nearby white oak.
Being pulled away, he exclaimed, âWhat are you doing?â
âYou fell off your horse.â
âDid I?â Erland asked matter-of-factly. âI donât remember that.â
âYouâre delirious. I think you hit your head.â
Erland hacked uncontrollably, coughing up blood. It pooled in his hand. Both men saw it, and they shared a look of concern. Almon dragged him the rest of the way into the shade and propped his father up against the trunk of the large tree. He pulled out his canteen and gave him a drink of warm metallic water. Erland could only drink a small amount before bursting out coughing again.
âAre your ribs broken?â
âThey're sore,â Erland said, feeling his sides. âNo, I donât think so.â
âYou gave me quite the scare.â Almon continued to inspect him, trying to catch his breath.
âWhat happened to my horse?â Erland asked, starting to regain his senses. All three of them were nearby, grazing on tall grass as if nothing had happened. They were not Almonâs primary concern at the moment.
âLetâs just rest here a while,â Almon said as a cool breeze passed through the shade. He turned on his back and slid down the trunk, coming to rest beside his father. Beads of sweat formed on his face. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, then looked their situation over.
âWell, itâs getting hotter, and yet, here we are.â
âHow far are we from home?â Erland said, coughing.
âHaverhill is over eighty miles away.â
âYouâre upset with me, arenât you?â
âI just donât understand you,â Almon said, rubbing his face. âIf you were sick, you should have called off this trip.â
âI wanted things to be normal.â
âThatâs not true, and you know it. Why donât you admit it? You knew you were dying before we left Haverhill. You got me out here with you so that you could die in the Mid-Run Valley knowing I would take care of you.â
Erland did not object. He did not say it, but there was no other place for him to die than in the Mid-Run Valley and no other person he would want to be with more than Almon. He looked at his son and considered him.
All the Plum-Kilmer men were tall and athletically built, and Almon was no exception. He possessed the same dark reddish hair like his father, although Erlandâs hair was shorter, grayer with age, and his beard was more tightly cropped than his sonâs.
âIt was this time last year Mother died.â Almon looked at Erland resting beside him. He noticed how frail his father had become. It darkened his face and took the edge out of his voice. âIs she here with us?â
âJohanna,â he said fondly. Erland laid his head back and rested, remembering her. âNo, not in that way. Only in memory.â
But that was not entirely true.
He had visited her crypt below the House of Erland the day before they left. He could still remember the acidic, corrosive smell of being underground. The flame from his candle bathed the tomb in a warm glow. There, flush to the stone floor, lay the crypt of Johnna Plum-Kilmer.
He could feel her energy there, more so than anywhere else in the House of Erland. Although the dusty chamber did not immediately reveal any sign of her lingering spirit, that was about to change. He could feel a growing apprehension, the oppressive heaviness in the air, that made him aware that he was not alone. The feeling made his spine tingle in a chill.
Then, appearing from the shadow, within the darkened corner, Johannaâs brown eyes, her pale face, slowly emerged into his soft candlelight.
âJohanna, my darling,â Erland whispered to the spirit. He extended his hand and took a step closer to her. Johannaâs pale hand moved to take his; yet, she stopped short.
Someone is near, she said in a hollow voice. Almon is coming.
Suddenly, Erlandâs candle flame flickered, causing shadows to dance eerily across his face. He looked at it, then glanced upward, across the ceiling. Now sensing the disruption for himself, he withdrew his hand and delicately closed it, the space between them growing ever apart.
âWe were so close,â he whispered.
Movement stirred the flow of air in the crypt, followed by a loud bang from above; it was the metal door at the top of the stairs leading to the tombs. Erlandâs eyes turned briefly to the side, then back at Johanna as he heard heavy steps coming down toward them.
He worries about you, Johanna said. He suspects the truth.
âThen we will wait, but soon, and we will be reunited again,â Erland promised her, extending his palm in a motionless wave. Without a further word, Johannaâs spirit slowly retreated into the shadows. Then her spirit was gone.
Erland wondered silently to himself. Where does she go?
All will be revealed, the fading voice of Johanna answered, reading his thoughts.
Just then, Almon appeared at the bottom of the stairs and opened the crypt portcullis with the slight creak of metal against metal.
âI thought I would find you here,â he said, entering the tomb.
Erland walked into the darkened corner, where Johanna had previously emerged, longing to absorb any of the lingering energy that remained of her. Slowly, he turned and acknowledged his son.
âHello, Almon.â
Almon approached, seeing his motherâs face, or at least the likeness of it, chiseled in stone on top of her tomb, embedded flush to the floor. He looked at Erland. âAm I disturbing you?â
âNo, come join us.â It was no strange occurrence for Erland to spend quiet time in Johannaâs crypt. In the year since her death, he 1 9 JOE LYON had grown ever more melancholy. His health was failing, too. He had developed a raspy cough that had long been getting worse. The two stood quietly together, sharing a solemn moment to look upon her chiseled face in the stone.
Whispering to keep the reverence, Almon broke the silence. âIâm getting our supplies ready.â
Erland did not seem to hear.
âFor our hunt tomorrow?â Almon added.
Erland looked up slowly, a blank expression on his face.
âAre you all right?â Almon asked him.
âYes, of course. The hunt tomorrow.â
The hunt will be our time, he heard Johannaâs voice say, speaking to his mind again, where only he could hear.
âWhatâs wrong?â Almon said, Erlandâs disengagement made him wonder. âAre you still wanting to go? Are you feeling up to it?â
âWe go every year.â Erland looked at him through his lashes.
âYes, but youâve been under the weather, havenât you? We can postpone it. Just until you feel better.â
âI canceled last year; I canât cancel again.â
âWhy, when itâs just you and I?â
Their annual trip had always been a favorite time to the senior Plum-Kilmer. His life revolved around it, the planning, the preparations, but because this hunt would be the first one since Johannaâs death, this time it was extra special.
âBecause,â he answered Almon, âthe hunt will be our time.â
What a strange reply, Almon thought. But before he could say anything more, Erland blew out the candle, leaving the two of them in utter darkness in the crypt, with only the single torch in the stairwell as the solitary light, and led the way out.
The next day their trip got underway, but it did not start well. Conversation between them seemed forced; it had never been before.
Erland had taken up talking to himself and appeared cold and depressed, more so than usual. They rode out on horseback from the House of Erland, an enormous stone mansion, the largest in all of Haverhill. Their packhorse accompanied them with the supplies they would need and paced alongside Almon. Erland took up the rear and did not speak, deep in his own thoughts; if not for the occasional cough, Almon would have thought he was alone.
âIf that cough doesnât get any better,â Almon warned, âwe will need to head back in.â
âSorry, but no chance,â Erland said between coughs. âIâll be fine.â
âBut whatâs the point if you scare away the deer? You know they can hear you a mile away. If you keep it under control, this hunt might not be pointless. Isnât there anything you can do?â
âIâll try, Almon.â But he could not keep silent. His cough continued as the miles rolled away.
âStop it!â Almon grumbled.
After his outburst, he shifted in his saddle, annoyed. He knew his father would continue the hunt, even if it killed him. âYouâre so loud.â
âIâm sorry, Almon.â
Around the mid-day heat of the second day, they stopped for lunch. Erland did not eat, he did not even try. Instead, he wrapped himself in a blanket, even though the sun was brutally hot. Almon tried to convince him again they should return home. But like before, Erland insisted they continue, telling him he just needed help to mount his horse, and that he would feel better once riding on the trail. Almon suspected he would say as much. Shaking his head, he kept silent, and helped Erland up in the saddle.
But the pair only made it a couple of miles before Erland fell off his horse and could not get back on. Almon saw the riderless horse and his father sitting in a daze in a cloud of dust.
Now here, under the cool shade of the tree, Erland opened his eyes again. He had not realized he had fallen asleep.
âI was dreaming about Johanna,â Erland said, âand that day in the tomb, the day before we left Haverhill for the hunt.â He looked again at his son. Almon returned with a grim look of his own. They held each otherâs gaze steady.
âI need to ask you something,â Almon said softly. âEven though weâve never talked about it before. Is it true? That you speak with the spirits of the dead?â
Even now, Erland seemed reluctant to talk about those specific aspects of his life.
âWhat does it matter? You understand more than you think. Even more than you want to believe.â
âNo, this is not about believing. I just want to understand it.â
Erland furrowed his brow. âBe careful what you say out loud, Almon. Your words betray your emotions, and there are some that will feed upon them; look how it has grayed my hair.â
âDo these spirits feed on depression?â
âDepression is merely a side effect,â Erland said, struggling for breath. âOur family has long suffered from what has come before us. But we bore it in silence. Yet you know every generation has had its ghosts.â â
I am twenty-five years old. Why has no spirit ever appeared to me?â
âYou will have to find these things out for yourself, Almon,â Erland said, getting out his words between coughs. âNothing I say will help you understand it any better, Iâm afraid. I am sorry.â
Erland tugged at his ring. âBut this, I must pass to you while there is still time.â
He worked the ring off his finger. Almon had never seen it leave his fatherâs hand before. But here, in the shade of the big oak, Erland handed the ring over to him. âI carried this legacy as far as I can. Now my time is over. You will be our strength. It is your turn to bear it.â
Almon looked at the ring in the palm of his hand and knew what it meant. Erland Plum-Kilmer had access to a large family inheritance passed down for generations on his fatherâs side. It had long been the tradition of the rich to adopt a surname to keep their wealth in their own blood lineage. What the surname Plum-Kilmer meant to the rest of the world was that his family belonged to the original aristocracy, the ruling class, meaning that they were to be handled with respect and privilege. The ring came from the first and original Kilmer, a well-known knight to the realm who served under the first Leopold kingdom two hundred years ago. Crafted in thick, solid gold on its face, rubies and diamonds formed their family crest. Etched along the sides of it were scenes of the hunt, with deer leaping among rivers, trees, and oak leaves. The ring possessed immense value on its own, for the raw materials of gold and precious stones, but as the Plum-Kilmer family crest, it was a priceless heirloom as a piece of history.
âI cannot bear putting this on,â Almon said. âThis is your ring.â
âIt is your inheritance now; do with it as you will. Where I am going, it will not help me. Death is the great equalizer; it makes paupers of us all.â
Dismayed, Almon put the ring in his shirt pocket for safekeeping.
âI am going to die soon,â Erland said without opening his eyes.
âI know,â Almon said in acknowledgment, reaching to loosen Erlandâs collar. âYou knew that before we left.â
Suddenly Erlandâs eyes widened and fixed in space. His lips trembled but made no sound. Then he arched his back in a spasm.
âNo, donât do this! Please donât leave me!â Almon said, crying. His voice rose in panic. He lifted his father by the shoulders, embracing him. âPlease. Donât go.â
âIt is passing,â he whispered in Almonâs ear.
Then, Erland Plum-Kilmer breathed his last as death finally overwhelmed him.
A long howl of anguish rose in Almonâs throat, knocking the wind out of him. Gently, he rocked his father in his arms, holding him close, struggling against the gravity pulling his lifeless body down.
Eventually, Almon released him to rest on his side in the soft grass. He cried looking at his father, imagining him reviving, expecting to see him move.
Erland remained still.
His thoughts were racing. Daylight would be running out soon, and he was days from home. Whatever he decided, it would not be easy. The sun was too hot to take his fatherâs body back to the House of Erland, and that would be a two-day journey. But here, the vultures were already circling, and soon other predators would catch wind. At any rate, he knew being taken back to the House of Erland was not what his father genuinely wanted.
Reluctantly, Almon forced himself to make the preparations.
At last, as the sun was going down, Almon stood over a fresh mound of dirt. Underneath it, resting in a shallow grave, lay the remains of Erland Plum-Kilmer.
He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out the ring: The Plum-Kilmer family crest. It felt heavy when he slipped it onto his finger. He admired it for a moment, considering what it represented, then looked over at his fatherâs final resting place. He wondered if a host of spirits might rush in on him after the death of the senior Plum-Kilmer. But he stood there alone, unmolested.
He ran the events of the last two days over in his mind. He immediately had regrets about the things he said, and the way heâd acted. Looking back down at the grave, Almon leaned against his shovel and thought he should say some appropriate words.
âI am now the last Plum-Kilmer that remains, and I am terrified about the future without your strength. I knew we shouldnât have come out this far. Why wouldnât you listen?â
That was a bad start, and his words stuck in his throat. Almon reminded himself that staying in Haverhill would not have changed a thing. Erland would be just as dead.
He looked at his dirty boots and tried to start over.
âIâm sorry. This is where you belong,â Almon said, fighting back emotion. He looked up at the remaining daylight and squinted. âYou loved the Mid-Run Valley. You always have. You loved our trips. In your heart, you were always the hunter. I want you to know that I always admired you. You were always my hero. You faced death the same way you faced life: You did it on your terms. I really wish I could be more like you. There was nowhere else you would rather be than here, and so now, you will rest here in this valley forever, just as you wanted. Now you can reunite with your darling Johanna in the next life. Today marks the end of your hunt in this world. Now, you can begin your hunt in the next one. Good hunting, Erland PlumKilmer. Until we meet again.â
It was late in the evening, and Almon made camp beside where he buried his father, just to stay nearer to him once more. After a fitful, restless night, in the morning, he gathered as many stones as he could find and laid them on Erlandâs grave. He took great care to mark the exact location on his map; this place was sacred ground to him.
He rode out with the morning sun, riding home alone with Erlandâs riderless horse. Returning to Haverhill was a colorless journey for Almon. He rode the miles away, numb to a sense of time or direction. Luckily the horses knew their way back, and after what seemed like a blur, he was back at the House of Erland.
The next few days, he walked along the familiar pathways and empty halls of the House of Erland. The stone mansion felt more like a tomb to him now, a monument to his despair. Everywhere he looked, he saw stained glass memories of his mother, his father, and generations of the Plum-Kilmers before him. Memories lingered in every keepsake and they all made him heartsick. Everything was left in their familiar places; Almon did not have the heart to change anything, yet he resolved to spend less time there, in the House of Erland.
It took him some time to realize he was free. He had played the role of the dutiful son for so long he did not realize how much it defined him; now, having that role removed, he did not know what to do. It all happened so quickly. Unprepared for his newfound freedom, he spent his days in mourning over the loss of his normality.
That is precisely when the ghost, at last, made its entrance.
The Provenance (Book One of Astarâs Blade) is a history of a fictional world. Particularly the area of the Mid-Run Valley and a few other locations within the world. This fictional history is told through two time lines, the present period of the world and the distance past of the world. The stories follow both the actions of the worldâs deities and their children, and the life of a young man whose family is cursed with the vision of ghosts.Â
As the story progresses, you learn about how the past worked to create the world that the rest of the story takes place it. You experience everything from flawed gods with an ancient Greek mythology feel to them, to a young manâs desperate climb of a mountain to learn what ghosts so desperately want him to know. Is he simply mad or is there really something waiting for him to learn?
The Provenance is a great story. It is not very often that an author offers such an in-depth history of the world they have built. Often you are merely given as much knowledge as a current plot requires you to know. Sneak peaks in to different aspects of the world the main character sits in. The Provenance, however, pours two histories at you which tie together in to a wonderful story line allowing you to learn much of the world. If other novels by Joe Lyon provide as much detail in to their stories as this one, I will be hooked to the series for life.
The story of The Provenance flows well until the end, where my one issue arises regarding this story. The ending seems far too sudden, as though it was thrown in rather quickly. Despite this single issue, reading about the journey that leads to this climax makes up for sudden ending, and also leaves one interested in future books of the series. There are some questions that I hope the other novels answer.
Fans of fantasy should pick up The Provenance and any other work by Joe Lyon they may get their hands on!Â