The Time Weaver
by Robert Ipcar

N'ayu...

A ringed water world encircled by three moons, its seas crimson by summer, azure blue in winter. Its indigenous peoples, the humanoid Mateek and their human counterparts, the Wai'min, have long been subjugated by the descendants of a marooned Earth Colony, the self-proclaimed Children of Orion who rule by a feudal system of Kings and Lords. Yet the golden eyed Wai'min and the blue skinned Mateek hope one day to regain their rightful place, for under the great red moon are those who follow the majiskala, those who would draw on the powers of the occult in order to lead the way to victory.

Two hundred generations have come and gone, but still the Children of Orion battle each other for power—a campaign begun in some long forgotten age. Intrigue after intrigue continue to plague the descendants of the Lynns, Kerrys, Zyainas and Aarrsts, heirs to these ever changing political dynasties; their struggle played out among the five great islands known as the Bryadies.

Amidst the flames of revolution, Lord Rolaand Devereaux is betrayed by a spurned lover. His son Erish, secret heir to the Winter Kingdom, unknowingly travels one step ahead of an assassin. Captain Sean Kerry who would secure his own son's future, finds himself caught between two women of noble birth, Marvaa DesWaren and her Niece Laraday, who are both determined to remake the world in their own image. And watching all is the Time Weaver; she who must find the key to the past if Erish might unlock the future.

Author: Do you find Marvaa believable? Your feedback would be useful...

Meet Erish, Captain Kerry, Marvaa...

Erish...
Chapter One

Erish settled into a crouch, a booted foot poised at the edge of the slick bronzed lintel. Far below stretched a line of smoldering coldfire lamps, a dozen steadfast sentinels which defined the harbor's edge. Their bluish light glistened in the waters beside the quay, a mirror of the shrouded heavens above–still a predawn curtain of darkness.

He took a slow, deliberate breath, relaxing his lips. Never had he felt such fear in all his sixteen summers; never had his life ridden on such a moment. Heart pounding, he extended his wings...

Go!

Arching his arms, he leapt from the tower window, the broad sweep of feathers bowing under his weight. A sea born updraft struck squarely on, his new found pinions issuing a thousand rustled warnings–each whisper more sensed than heard. He pushed down with determined strokes as if this invisible current he rode were some grand staircase, every riser somehow fitted to his lean muscular frame. He levered himself skyward, labored thrusts made all the more easy as his forward momentum increased. His apprehension melded into an intuitive sense of stability as he worked his way upward...

Higher still!
His curly blonde hair flew free like a disheveled mane.

Erish dared look down for the first time...

The East Gate lay behind him; the broad waterfront quay almost directly below. A cargo schooner topped with twin riding lamps lay alongside, one of several such vessels which had sought sanctuary in Hegon’s Harbor the previous afternoon. Hopefully they had posted a guard! While Nor'wall's twisting alleys were home to those who made their living from the Nameless Sea, there was no shortage of others who thought nothing of preying upon unwary strangers; others who given the chance would slit the throat of nobleman or seaman alike, no matter that Hegon’s protective walls loomed overhead. He had no regrets leaving this all behind!

One momentary regret...
That there were no witnesses to his departure.

In the morning old T'oddh would enter his private chambers atop Hegon's keep tower and discover him gone. Cursing in his native Badash, the ancient servant would hobble to the adjoining quarters where he'd rouse out Justin Aarrst, his father's personal Hawk Master. Aarrst too, would damn all youthful adventurers; order a futile search of the fortress and grounds.

To no avail!
Erish couldn't help but smile...

Certainly his meddling step-mother, Lady Marvaa, would come running, no doubt followed by her inseparable confidant, the golden eyed Wai’min sorceress known as J'ania. Could it be true–the whispers in the Great Hall–that those two secretly shared a bed together?

No wonder his Lord-Governor father, Rolaand Devereaux, drank heavily.
Under similar circumstances he would too.

Women!

How he'd love to see the look on his Aunt Marvaa’s face; her calculating marriage plans for her Reshegon niece knocked array by his sudden disappearance. What man in his right mind would want such a woman; a haughty off islander whose veins ran as blue as the reptilian Mateek's, the non-human mercenaries with whom the Cha'nyas were said to share lineage? Not hard to believe, that legend! Laraday Cha'nya rode silently like a Mateek, barely touching the reins, her horse fairly flying over hillside meadows as if driven by some inaudible call; a soundless cry which quickened the blood; which ignited a competitive flame almost male in recklessness...

Win at any cost!

Not that he preferred the dull-witted females who somehow managed to attend the Great Hall whenever he was around! But Laraday was... Her manner was as unsettling as she was beautiful. She met a man's gaze directly... No, let her wonder.

Let them all wonder!

Certainly the open window would be cause enough for speculation. His whereabouts would be as mysterious as his mother's tragic disappearance some sixteen summers ago; back when he'd been but a newborn.

But now...

Now he would be one with Aarrst's hawks, fly free of the tether. The rush of wind felt soothing; his wings flexed rhythmically without conscious effort. He could feel the boundless energy suffuse his body–an urge to ride upward...

Go where they couldn't follow.

Far to his left, pinpoint flashes of light caught his eye: dancing petals which seemed to jump toward him as he stared, magnifying as if his eyes somehow compensated for the distance, wondrously enabled with the powers of a far glass.

Oil lamps…

Late night revelers moving fast, their all-weather ship lanterns barely illuminating the passing shadows. A bad choice those lamps for they were far better seen than to see by. A sword glinted momentarily... and another.

Just as well they took care.

It was Nor'wall's streets they walked: a haphazard warren of wood frame dwellings and windowless sheds innocently nestled against the fortress's north face. Though his best friend T’nosh bragged of the wild times to be had there, Lord Devereaux had decreed Nor'wall off limits to his only son unless accompanied by a squad of bodyguards. No matter that the end of the world was upon them–a Wai’min prophesy he could well believe!

The thought sent him lurching...

His shoulders muscles snapped against the unexpected load, his body skidding in a drunken turn as if he'd caught an oar; his down turned wing losing lift...

Get control!

Erish wrenched his gaze upward, a whistle of relief escaping his lips as his body obediently rolled, righting itself. Flattening himself into a lifeless glide, he gathered his composure, making no attempt to gain altitude. Silently he drifted toward the gloom of the distant horizon; allowing the pain in his shoulder to subside.

His recklessness had almost killed him!
But so had sixteen summers of submission…

As a child he’d had fun demanding obedience of everyone in the Great Hall. Then had come the gradual awareness, that those about him were more fawning guards than subservient retainers; that he was in actuality a prisoner to the name Devereaux; expected to rule someday because of his father’s name, unable to have an identity of his own.

That was before the end of the world....

That he was sole heir to all Hegon, an island territory encompassing the Northern domains of Hiledge and Hegon as well as the southernmost province of E'ton, no longer assured a secure future. Since summer's beginning, the Wai’min seers had begun to predict an end soon to come–all N’ayu swept by fire as was said to have happened some thirty generations earlier.

The coming conflagration would see the Wai’min peoples once again regain their past glory; throw off the oppressive rule of the so called Children of Orion, those oppressive newcomers whose affinity for trade and commerce had divided a loose federation of island peoples into territorial strongholds at constant war with one another. The end of the world would begin with them, predicted the seers...

Erish was in total agreement!

What more fitting end for a ruling civilization whose citizens walked their very streets in fear; whose entire history since their coming consisted of one war after another; their founders perishing in the flames of discord. Still the reality was that the wealthy as well as the impoverished would undoubtedly feel the wrath of the dark twin suns–a subtlety not lost on him.

Not that he relished the company of the common man…

Yet the one immediate future he wished changed–would change–was this unacceptable betrothal forced upon him by his father and step mother: this unwanted command that he be faithful to Laraday, a woman already in her seventeenth summer–a full summer older than he! She had no place in his world...

Not with everything so uncertain.

The Nameless Sea loomed ahead, its crimson surface masked in darkness. In the folded haze beneath him lay the sheds and saw pits of Hegon's principle shipyard and mast landing. Close nearby would be the tranquil moat surrounding the Abbey of The True-Light, where he as a child he had spent countless summers sailing toy boats on its weed covered waters. How often had he pretended that he too, like the vessels taking form on the nearby ways, would someday explore the length and breadth of the northern and southern continents? Now he had the power...

He drew on his wings once again, pulling further into the gloom ahead.
How far could he fly?

So many islands! So many enemies...

Kerry...
Chapter Two

"I'll see ya six. Damned if ya’s luck will hold."

"Now there’s what I'd like to see on close inspection... Hey, ya... Missy!"

The serving maid twisted from the offending grip with deft expertise, her hood flying back as her glossy dark braids whipped across her face. The pot of Hegon ale she carried chopped into the pitted table top, foam spattering over closely held cards.

"Sir, ya three be strangers here!" she hissed.

Again the arm reached out, her veiled threat unheeded. "How's about we celebrate tha end of tha world, my Nor’wall beauty?"
She made no pretext of politeness now…

"Ya stinking fisherman! Ya keep ya’s hands on the table or Jonz, there, will have ya’s out on ya ear."

Her sharp protest penetrated the dimly lit room, severing a dozen conversations with the ease of a hunter's lance. Just as quickly a roar of laughter shook the waterfront tavern–applauding her outburst–her tormentor's anonymity cast aside; his indiscretion marking him for all who would come to her defense.

Sean Kerry slouched back against the tavern wall, carefully shifting position on the wooden bench as he surveyed the two card players visible through the tap room doorway. Had they kept to themselves, they would have attracted little notice in this smoke filled warren of tiny rooms. Their short cropped hair, baggy canvas work pants and open necked blouses were of a cut favored by fisherman throughout the Briadies. Yet their clothing seemed hardly soiled enough to have worked a net. Kerry's bemused expression faded, becoming one of casual scrutiny.

Perhaps not all they seemed...
But then who here was not?

That he chose life as a simple ship’s master was belied by his appearance. Pressed linen trousers bloused into knee high shiilskin boots proclaimed his appreciation for the finest hand tooled leather and fine silk; his long sleeved shirt embroidered with a traditional Wai’min design–the interlocking olive ovals known as big fish/little fish.

Though beards were in fashion among society's well-to-do, his personal standards aboard ship decreed that all aboard be clean shaven though the look served to accent the youthfulness of his thirty two summers. His one concession to individuality was his shoulder length dark hair tied back with a family keepsake–a silver Rowsegh clasp embossed with three eight pointed stars; the sign of the Wai’min Majiska, those who worked the dark mysteries.

A table of Lord's Militia raucously jeered from the back of the tavern as the barmaid stalked across the low beamed room. Kerry eyed them with calculated interest, his suspicions now fanned to the utmost. Too early to be in from their night shift...

By chance or on someone's order?

He fingered his half-emptied ale mug, drawing it up on edge, his gaze returning to the young woman as she levered the tap for another tray load of drinks. She was known as Swee; a dark haired Nor'wall beauty indeed; thin as forestay; a bare twenty summers if that. She had not exaggerated her husband’s prowess. Big boned Jonz stood poised behind the serving divider, a meaty fist frozen above the counter in mid-wipe.

Good fortune to have snatched such a lovely...
Kerry smiled grimly.

Bad fortune that day he and Jonz clung to the same broken spar, both swept seaward by the sluggish current of the E'dahn River, its waters assuming a crimson cast not of the Nameless Sea but of blood from a battle gone wrong! They had both been but eighteen summers that day, each thinking himself a man following a righteous cause.

Kerry had commanded a stone lugger, one of fifteen such vessels which served as a troop transport for the forces of Rowsegh. Their mission: to put a massive party ashore on this Northern river delta where they would test the mettle of occupying troops belonging to the House of Kaodah; even drive them from the Bht Hoshe Territories if possible.

That so many lives had been sacrificed for a hodgepodge of mountainous domains was testimony to a mismanaged campaign fought by children. In the space of a single morning he and Jonz had joined the initiated; both chance survivors among two hundred and fifty slain during that ill-fated sea born invasion which would come to be known as the Battle of Biele Isle.

That they'd been on opposite sides?
No matter.

Though a decade plus four had passed, they remained brothers, sired by the greed of powerful old men who little appreciated the tenuousness of life–one of whom bore his own surname. While a few self-styled Kings claimed family lines back to the beginnings of Orion’s so-called coming, his father insisted on a more humble title...

Lord-Governor for Life!

This time Kerry slugged down a drought of ale, waving off Swee's proposed refill as she swept along the opposite side of the tap room.

Biele Isle...

Trust in no other but one's self; a code which served him well since that fateful day. For all the hysterical talk of the end of the world, he found it hard to believe that the dark suns known as the Twins Above would choose his own lifetime to work their wrath. Not that those of Orion did themselves proud; their shabby treatment of the Mateek and Wai-peoples was an indictment beyond defense. No matter whether one believed Orion to be a true god or merely the name of some undistinguished vessel which had long ago made landfall on these shores.

They deserved whatever their fate...

Nonetheless the prospect of whatever was to come had forced him to take stock; seriously consider what gains he'd acquired during his thirty two summers. For too long he had let chance rule; let others dictate to which corner of the Nameless Sea he'd sail to next–his existence comfortably unpredictable. A boisterous chorus echoed from the back room...

Bye the bye, fair maids of the town,
Fare the well, I say oh,
If I be dead in battle, you'll a babe in your arms,
Chances are he'll look like me, oh!

Truth indeed that in a waterfront tavern more counsel might be gained from a single off-hand verse than from all the self-serving speeches of great and powerful despots.

T’nosh!

He had a son here in Nor'wall, a child fostered by an innkeeper's wife in honor of the promise he had made to the birth mother: that never would he take the boy from Hegon though she herself refused to acknowledge the child publicly. To this day Kerry remained sworn to secrecy; T’nosh believing his mother dead.

Sixteen summers old now...

He had done well by the lad! Had his son not been privileged by the Kerry name to attend the Great Hall at Hegon; accept an offer of tutoring as well as companion to none other than Lord Devereaux’s son, Erish? Kerry could hear Swee laughing from somewhere in back, the incident of moments ago seemingly forgotten. Again he toyed with his ale, lost in contemplation. Was it communion with shore bound humanity he had sought at this predawn hour or was it companionship?

That song a cruel mirror...

In a few day's time he'd be away once more; make passage for the north. He was determined to take T’nosh with him, no matter the consequences. No doubt the boy would be thrilled to sail with his father at long last. Little chance anyway of finding a proper charter in Hegon the way things were. Still there was another matter he had to face; a certain woman...

Most likely she would refuse to leave!

Acutely aware of his fatigue, Kerry again turned his gaze to the card players beyond the tap room. They had already been seated when he had first entered the tavern, having turned over the mid-morning watch to his mate.

"It's not fish they reek of…" muttered someone at his elbow.

The tavern owner had moved forward, a short wooden cudgel clutched tightly in one hand, its knobby head held low against his knee.

Jonz would always be the survivor.

"It's beasts they carry, Captain Kerry."

"I wondered," Kerry concurred in a low tone. "Not like fishermen to spend the entire night in a place like this. Strangers you say, Jonz?"

"They be off the Himorsse¾ black three master out of Longwalk. She put into port this afternoon."

Kerry nodded in recognition.

The ancient Mateek lands of T'Lon Wak were as far west of the Zhul River as one could get; well beyond the reach of the House of Kaodah. A further element of mystery had been added.

"A slaver's stench that vessel..." came a husky female voice from across the divider, her breathy accent devoid of the clicked syllables associated with Wai-speech: She was a thin graying woman with tanned chiseled features; hair wrapped in a black headband¾ military style.

Ash'elon Navigator...
From an island fortress far to the south.

Had her words referred to the Himorsse or were they chance fragments of a private conversation? Kerry took careful note of her companion.

A desert man...

An Emzebee trader by his look: gray hooded robe; blue checks on white designating the trading House of R'aal of the port of Casset. From his waist dangled a jeweled knife¾ deliberately visible.

Slave ship?

"Tha old bitch..."

Kerry raised the mug to his lips.
The third card player leaned into view, a look of alarm on his face.

"Hush! Mind my warning, Stehil."

"Naustic bedamned! Himorsse’s no slaver vessel..."

"Don't mess with an Ash'elon Navigator," warned his friend in a strained voice. "Be they men or woman, they's tha dark power ta slam ya’s across the room. Majiskalas tha lot of them."

Good advice that, grinned Kerry.

The man in question threw down his cards, eyeing his new adversary–the barmaid forgotten. "I'd take her on," he hissed. "Got powers of my own. She's not that long in tha tooth."

"Long? Ya’s sword's not long enough for her, Stehil."

Kerry suppressed a smile...

Not likely those words had been swallowed in this hubbub. He risked a sideways glance at the woman navigator. She’d actually grinned though her eyes remained averted......

Marvaa...
Chapter Three

From the darkened shadows of the East Gate emerged three women on horseback proceeded by four bridled mollossers, dark stocky mastiffs wearing leather neck guards who glanced neither left nor right as muzhik peasants flattened themselves against shuttered shops in apprehension. Well that they did for a small contingent of Mateek Guard accompanied in close formation: two riding to each side, four more to the rear; ready to put down the slightest threat without mercy.

The tallest of the three women separated from the others, urging her horse to a trot. She called upon her dogs to keep pace, at the same time waving off the escort's attempts to hold her back. She was tall as were most Des'Weren nobles who hailed from the mountainous province of Hiledge, her skin a light brown; her eyes a shade deeper than emerald. Yet her braided black hair was already streaked with gray, at odds with her otherwise youthful appearance.

She glanced about, delighting in the familiar, yet allowing her imagination to indulge in an age old game: that she was still her long ago self–the child, Marvaa, of six summers, not thirty–coming down from the isolated crags and valleys of Hiledge to view the sophisticated outside world for the first time. How wondrous Hegon Fortress appeared even now with its flowing metal walls seemingly cast of a single pouring; the cobble stoned streets lined with shops of ancient red brick…

It was here in Hegon that she had first encountered these pale blue riders who now formed her guard, an enigmatic race who were said to have once ruled the Nameless Sea as far south as the Emzebee deserts. Not surprising that they scorned the horse, preferring instead the long limbed catyh–slender shaggy twin horned beasts whose turquoise eyes burned with a sentient intelligence belying their animal form. That these fearsome warriors sat freely in the saddle, disdaining use of a bridle, was perhaps proof indeed, for their mounts deftly responded to a wordless mind-linkage refined over the passing centuries.

The Mateek were a proud, dignified people...

Their relationship with their beasts to be envied though the Wai’min considered the catyh most sacred, never to be ridden or used for domestic purpose. It was said that the legendary Wai’min patriarch, Ram'hagan, had granted the catyh its freedom, in gratitude for...

For what?
The rest of that legend lost in vagaries...

Or perhaps, deliberately forgotten.

Certainly the catyh proved all but impossible to manage as far as humans were concerned; the beasts perhaps confused by the myriad of conflicting emotions that emanated from the human subconscious. There was one notable exception. Her esteemed Lord husband, Rolaand Devereaux, had mastered the catyh as easily as he had dominated those about him–intolerant of any defiance to his will. Like the Mateek he appeared immune to frivolous musing, single-mindedly pursuing whatever task he undertook. Perhaps an unfair assessment for who truly knew what the Mateek thought? In any event they would undoubtedly survive this coming end of the world.

Marvaa steeled her thoughts...
Nothing would come of it!

Hadn't she herself been born during a string of so-called endless winters? Killing frosts had gripped the countryside season round; the entire population of Hiledge forced into a mean existence from the sea, though truly to this day she secretly loved the taste of salt fish!

Certainly no doomsday this dawn...

Not that the morning heat wasn’t welcome considering the season. She glanced down at her highland’s saddle; the row of copper snaps along the blackened leather awaiting the hooded wool-lined parka that would protect a rider from the slashing sleets of autumn. But this morning even her riding cloak remained in her chambers; a black satin tunic over muzhik riding leathers sufficing. That such attire was ill-befitting a Lord-Governor's Lady was hardly the case for embroidered within the delicate fabric were tiny gold mirrored sequins which swirled about her shoulders like miniature meteors, an embellishment which betrayed her as a woman of means if not outright royal lineage. To an awed muzhik her appearance might have been that of the Seven Sisters of Dak'alow, her celestial body radiating showers of sparks as she danced down from the nighttime heavens. Marvaa flushed with momentary pride.

She was a Des'Weren...
Her House no less equal than any other of Orion’s own.

Though some would cast dispersions..

That it was said that the Des’Werens shared blood with the bronzed skin Wai’min was to be considered a source of pride, not shame, for the Wai’min were once a proud people; a people who had innocently welcomed the Children of Orion as fellow human beings, little knowing that within a few short generations their reward would be social degradation.

Yet all these scornful aspersions were but hushed asides, perhaps never truly believed even by those who cast them. No doubt these whisperers of the Great Hall would have gladly traded their pale skin and thin hair for the influence and prestige of a Des'Weren. Her House was one of the oldest and most respected of all the Briadies. The Des'Werens, it was said, once ruled at Orion's right hand...

She brought herself back to the moment.

A supreme morning, almost spring-like in its clarity; every indentation in the cobblestone street underfoot etched in sharp relief as if everything had been prepared for the final judgment...

All was as it should be!

Marvaa turned her gaze upward, shading her eyes with one hand; staring directly above the twin suns; searching for the faint white pathway which even now should be forming against the dawn sky. It was there, the broad sweeping arch known as Savan T'nia's Bow, its span stretching from horizon to horizon; its pale daylight appearance in stark contrast to the vibrant blues and rippling violets associated with its sundown display. The Wai’min considered the bow a daily a reminder of Ram’hagan’s promise: that as long as the old ways were maintained, the world known as N’ayu would exist forever.

"Look, Aunt Marvaa! The shadows move visibly at this hour!"

Her niece Laraday closed in beside her, her muzhik riding leathers and tunic top boldly emblazoned with glistening blue and white daggers above a crescent lake–the crest of the House of Cha'nya. Marvaa noted with concern that she had come armed, a short sword resting in a saddle scabbard by her right knee.

As always Laraday’s physical appearance was unnerving in that she was the incarnation of her mother both in statuesque beauty as well as stubborn independence. While her niece’s green eyes might have come from either family, her lighter skin reflected her father's off-island lineage, even down to the faint blue sheen that raised many an eyebrow within the Great Hall–the women of Reshegon marked forever in the eyes of those who fed on rumor and innuendo. Legend had it that Mateek blood ran in their veins.

"If not for you, Marvaa, I'd have slept through this splendid morning.!"

"Only lovers sleep late, Laraday" Marvaa immediately bit her lip. Doubtful her niece would allow this ill attempt at humor to pass. Laraday’s red hair was close cropped, signifying that she had passed into her seventeenth summer; that she was now a woman of marriageable age. Not that Marvaa was totally unsympathetic to the young woman's reluctance to accept Erish as her betrothed. Life after all, like this unaccustomed warmth from the heavens, was at best a two edged sword; to be suffered without complaint. But her niece’s resemblance to her own estranged sister was forever a reminder of their bitter parting of ways...

Even now Laraday regarded her with those same intense green eyes and determined jaw. "My betrothal to Erish is a cruel joke, Aunt Marvaa. He’s unbelievably shallow! We've said all that's to be said to each other in the space of a ten-day. This sharing of sleeping quarters that’s to be foisted on us–no matter that it will end by winter–is nothing but a cruel sham."

So certain there would be a winter...

Still Marvaa found it impossible not to pursue this endless argument. "In my time, Laraday, we were offered no such consideration. You would have been wed by now and that would have been that. It's only in deference to Reshegon tradition that..."

"At least there's love between my mother and father."

Ashtelle...
Her sister's voice!

Scornful...
A hurtful reminder that Erish was not even her own!

What right had her sister’s child to equate her marriage to Rolaand Devereaux with that of her own parents? Had her own sister not married out of spite? Had she not deliberately used Laraday's father as a means to escape Hiledge? While she on the other hand...

Had what she'd done been any different?

"We've... we've a relationship, Rolaand and I," Marvaa began. "We suit each other more than you'd think..."

Over the clatter of hooves, she could hear people shouting from somewhere close by. Her mastiffs had already halted, automatically sitting as they silently stared down a side street. More aggressive in appearance than manner, their training called for watchful waiting when it came to trouble. Indeed it was said that this unique breed never barked less they frighten off a prowler; that theirs was to lie in silent wait until the offender was close enough to seize. What happened next was a tale oft told to troublesome children who wouldn't go to sleep at night...

Distracted, Marvaa turned in her saddle. Though both sides of the street were lined with shuttered shops, none as yet were open. Holding up a hand as a signal to the others, she reined in her mount, studying the side passages curiously.

"Oh, come, Marvaa. It's none of our concern."

The third woman eased her horse to a halt beside her.

She too, was equally striking: long black braided hair, high cheekbones of delicate bronzed skin; her eyes as golden as a winter sunrise. Miniature red jewels denoting her pure Wai’min ancestry, resonated faintly from her temples–crystalline offerings from the Nameless Sea's most empathetic dweller, the worm-like zeepray. Unlike her companions she had chosen to wear her silken green cloak in spite of the promise of an unusually hot day.

"J'ania's right, Marvaa," Laraday urged, their argument apparently forgotten. "I'm absolutely famished. The T'aah House is just down the street."

Again Marvaa strained to make sense of the clamor.

"Hush," she cautioned gently. "And you, J'ania, of all people, should sense something's not right."

"Oh it's far too early in the morning to practice cas laah," J'ania yawned, pretending to lift the tiny wai-zine mark from her cheek, the feathery design unmistakable in its Sanoahan origins. Yet she snapped her fist into the air, fingers splaying outspread; a gesture used by the Sagamen whenever they sang of the majiskas, those who practiced the occult way of old–a gesture implying to flow from one's physical self. "For now, dear Marvaa, I prefer to remain within the warmth of my own body."

The whispers of the Hall...

Such outspoken references though seemingly made in jest, were in themselves cause for gossip though J'ania had lived in the Des'Weren household since childhood. Hers was the House of E'ton, a rock strewn territory on the southernmost tip of Hegon, a Wai’min House which had risen in prominence enough to warrant an exchange of children as a token of mutual respect. From the age of ten summers they had been inseparable companions, almost sisters in fact.

Rolaand had been married to Chansalee T'Lynn back then...

Marvaa nodded absently, turning back to the side street, stretching higher in the saddle, searching. Her mastiffs continued to slouch back on their haunches, tongues out in apparent boredom.

But there was indeed trouble afoot...

Book One

Children Of Orion
(Available Now)