((Ok, so this book is my pride and joy, my love, etc etc etc. Been writing it for what feels like forever. So, I want to post a few sections of it up on here, see if I can get any opinions. Tone, character, is it interesting, etc, etc. My beta-reader isn\'t helping much right now, so yeah. There may be a few typos, sorry about that, but I\'m posting this from draft 3, not the polished draft I\'m sending off to DAW Publishing.))
From Chapter II: Awakening the Angel[/b]
Kronos Shal’rakal, that was what the treasure spoke as his name. He had said it slowly, uncertainly. He could not remember exactly if that was it, a tick at the back of his brain saying no though the rest of him seemed to think so. There was little he remembered past waking, and then having a group of knights staring at him. Kronos wished they would not stare. Prying eyes felt familiar in a way, as unwelcome as they were.
He shook his head, feeling a tug in his hair and knowing he should not have. The moment they emerged from the altar Kronos was whisked away, a group of priests swooping in and leaving no choice. They were all brightly robed but their faces seemed cold. The sunny veils covering them hardly helped. It was not long before Kronos was left inside a room just off the main aisle of the cathedral, attendants joining him moments later. One was running a comb through his tangled hair, straightening out the obsidian strands.
One attendant had taken a sponge and was scrubbing Kronos’ face, working vigorously beneath the left eye. The splotch there was a freckle, would not be going anywhere. A sigh escaped pale lips, hanging on the still air. After a moment of pause the brush was lifted again, the attendant leaning in to see better. Kronos wanted to move away from all the attendants that had swarmed him but the back of his chair prevented it. The brush touched his upper lip, the stain cold. Kronos flinched, the brush pausing until the attendant was sure he would be still.
The mirror on the far wall showed the transformation taking place. The chaotic locks of his hair were being tamed, falling flat and silky around his face. The comb attendant had taken to twisting sections together, pinning them at the back of his head with bell ended clips. Kronos could hear the jingle. Finally the sponger and brush attendants moved back. His face was just as pale as it had been before, the freckle intact. His upper lip had been painted though, the black dye still damp. He had to keep his mouth slightly ajar to be sure it did not smear.
As the hair attendant continued his diligent work, the other two moved to a chest across the room, pulling pieces of armor and cloth from the wooden box. Only the top half of his hair was put into the twists and pinned at the back of his head, the rest allowed to hang over his shoulders. The three attendants went to dressing him, the old robes taken away and replaced with new. They did not even flinch at the sight of his scars, so many there were. Some still looked fresh.
The armor was similar to that which the Guardian wore, only there was no ornamentation of bronze, the entire suit of shirah. The metal squirmed for a moment before settling in, finding how it felt it fit best. One of the attendants jumped and was immediately dismissed. Kronos watched him go, the veil faced priest scurrying quickly from the room. The other two remained, looking Kronos over one last time before leading him from the chamber.
He felt different. The lacework of metal cording which covered his neck was tight, uncomfortable, but he could not figure out the ties to loosen it. Priests turned as the group passed, whispers flying between the men as they stared. Kronos kept his gaze to his feet, down at the teal glass as he walked. Clouds could be seen through it.
The buildings all looked alike, tall and with nothing on their faces, just windows too high up to see into. Food. Kronos could smell it. If he was hungry, he might have been enticed to follow it. The aroma only grew stronger, the priests leaving him before an oval door, the metal wedges spinning into the wall, a blast of warm air hitting him along with the full scent. A long table stretched the length of the room, breads and fruit arranged on platters down that sterile surface. The knights of before were all seated, enjoying the provided feast; there was another figure present, one Kronos did not know the face of. His robes looked familiar...
“So, the Treasure really is awake.”
It was the robed man who spoke. The cloth of his attire was finer than the other priests, hues richer. Beads and bells and rods adorned the loops and braids of his hair, no veil obscuring his face. There should have been a veil. He was the only one who stood, offering a smile that did nothing to warm his eyes. Though he extended a hand in offering, it was not taken. Kronos stared at the gloved thing; the white silk seemed out of place, another skewed piece of the attire. As a whole it seemed familiar, Kronos forcing himself to speak again, “Danaphi... Why was I awakened?”
The man seemed surprised, eyes widening for a moment, creases of his thin skin wrinkling deeper. It confirmed that he was the Danaphi, head of the Church. Kronos remained standing where he was, just inside that door. He could feel the breeze upon his back. The door was still open, a ready escape. Kronos saw no dagger on the man, no amulet, but that imminent sense of danger lingered. In Mirrana times the Danaphi had one purpose. He could not imagine it any other way.
“Join us.” The Danaphi let his hand fall to his side, crossing back to the table. A leather case was set upon it, before the head seat. It was bait to get Kronos further in the room, he knew it. However, it seemed the only way to get any answers. All he wanted was answers.
Kronos approached with caution, steps slow, firm. He grabbed the case and backed away. Though he heard two sighs, Kronos diverted his attention to the case, undoing the top laces and pulling the scroll out. The parchment was old... Kronos flinched, looking away from the drawings upon the weathered brown surface. “The ynkedra... Why have they returned?” He could hear his voice crack, how it quavered. One fist was trembling, so hard it was clenched around the case, the other barely keeping hold on the parchment. If it had not been a religious record-- or more importantly, a Mirrana record-- Kronos would have wanted to burn it.
“We do not know.”
A lie, Kronos was sure of it. He could see how the Solinari stared down at his empty plate rather than towards Kronos. The Danaphi was watching Kronos. Those eyes made him the most uncomfortable of all, that already existent sensation of cold about his body turning into a shiver. He wanted a cloak, anything just to further cover himself. The armor did not do a good enough job of that, the pants, the mesh of cloth and metal encasing his neck. The Danaphi seemed to be more focused on his neck than his eyes.
“Why do you think it is them?”
It felt like yesterday, despite the years which must have separated him from then. An entire race had been destroyed by the ynkedra demons. All but one, at least. Kronos closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. He rolled the scroll up, sliding the thing back in its case. The piece was part of the Mirrana records, those which survived the war. War did not seem the right word for it though, massacre closer to the truth.
The Danaphi was still silent, arms crossed before his chest. He was looking back, towards the Solinari. Asking for permission? Kronos was curious, walking to set the scroll case back on the table, take the seat provided for him. He could hear the door finally whir shut. Perhaps that closing, the sense of more privacy, drove the Danaphi to finally speak, “A group of knights was sent to investigate some islands spotted on the patrols last year. Only one knight returned. When we asked what happened... he described these beasts. We showed him the diagrams and he confirmed.”
“The ynkedra do not just let people go. They kill. That is all they can do.”
“He is dead now.”
Two people flinched visibly, the Solinari and the blond knight in dark blue. They knew him, the one who died. Kronos nodded. For the most part, the ynkedra had never seemed organized on their own, not enough to think of sending a messenger or setting a trap. Their leader had been an entirely different story. Despite not knowing how long it had actually been, Kronos still felt certain none of them could have survived so long, their leader especially.
“And you want me to kill the ynkedra?”
Silence again, it settled thickly over the table. The blond knight had his eyes closed, was biting his lip, trembling. The only woman present was staring across the table, at the wall blankly. The big man, who seemed like a leader of the knights, was pushing food about his plate, like he was debating whether or not he still had an appetite. Kronos was sitting at the head of a table filled with food yet there was no hunger stirring in him.
“You are the only Mirra we know of. You survived the last ynkedra attacks. Your expertise might stop history from repeating.” The Danaphi smiled, old skin showing hundreds of little wrinkles Kronos had not noticed before. For a moment Kronos considered that the man had not gotten to all the old Records, or that the ones that mattered had perished. The Danaphi knew some, but not all. “We did not wake you. You came back on your own. Perhaps you... felt the ynkedra return.”
That brief moment of hope was dashed. The head priest knew at least some of it. Kronos shifted his weight in the chair, moving just slightly away from where the Danaphi stood next to him. He looked to the Guardian, the man standing like a statue, ears probably shut to the entire discussion. The Guardian was subservient, willing to do as he was told. That scar on the young man’s cheek, it made Kronos curious. The Guardian was too familiar, looking at him almost like looking in a mirror, minus a few small details like the scar. It was unsettling in a way.
“Lord Shal’rakal, you survived.”
Survive was hardly the word for what he did, though a detail Kronos planned on keeping to himself. The ynkedra were to be the main focus, not his past mistakes. It was a haze, those years, they all blurred together. Time would remedy that, time and thought. Kronos knew he would be able to think on it enough, though time was an entirely different matter. With the ynkedra threat, time seemed fleeting.
“We should go immediately. We have to stop the ynkedra before they can organize and begin attacks on settlements. They will go after the islands first, where there is heavy tree cover. I suggest you land this city, for the safety of the priests. I would hate to see another Caleresi.”
There were a few things which had remained clear despite the years of sleep, Caleresi one of them. It was the capital of the Mirra, a great city of spires and glass walkways, soaring high in the sky. All the Mirra island settlements had been wiped out, the Mirra thinking it safest to remain in the air where they thought the ynkedra could not reach them. They were right in some regards, but it did not save them. Kronos sighed, following with a deep breath, the air rattling in his lungs. The machines keeping Caleresi in the sky had failed, the entire city plummeting hundreds of feet to crash into the island and ocean below. There were no survivors, not enough of the city left to salvage after the fact. Kronos did not want to see it happen again.
“I will be remaining here, Solinari. Use my transportation for the Shal’rakal.”
That was the confirmation Kronos had been dreading, that simple change of how words were used. The Danaphi probably did not even notice his slip with the way he was smiling. Kronos had told the priests and knights that Shal’rakal was the name of his household in Mirrana days. Kronos had told them he was the lord of that household for many years before the fall of the Mirra. The Danaphi knew otherwise. He had spoken of Kronos the same way the Mirrana priests did.
Kronos was glad the Danaphi would be staying with the priests, not departing with the knights. Standing, Kronos turned to face the Guardian, giving him a slight nod. “Take care of the Shrine in my absence. Keep the Records in the Room of Glass safe. None but you are to be in there.”
A small gasp came from the Danaphi, probably inaudible to the others. Kronos was unsure of how the Church operated now but if the structure stood unchanged, he could make an order like that. The order would have to be followed by all priests, including the Danaphi. It was the Guardian’s duty to remain strong and not let others in. What the Records beneath the altar held, Kronos could not remember. They could be anything. The Shrine was not originally a religious facility.
“Go now.” At that command the Guardian bowed, walking with swift steps towards the door and out the room. Kronos wanted to make sure the young man took his post before the Danaphi could send any priests to snoop it out. The man would do that if he had the chance, Kronos was sure of it. With that taken care of he felt more comfortable leaving. He was sure there were more safety measures he could take; there always were. The Shrine would do whatever it needed to, whether or not it had a person guiding it. “We depart immediately. I want to know every detail of what happened, no matter how small.”
The Solinari was already standing, the mask over his face concealing any emotion playing beneath it. He seemed more than ready to go. Kronos shared the same feeling, though his want to get away from the priest city was differently fueled. Moments later the knights were standing, filing out of the dining hall behind the Solinari. The blond knight was staring as he passed; it looked like there was a question on the tip of his tongue, but he continued by silently.
Being in that room alone with the Danaphi was uncomfortable. The aging man still showed traces of that anger from earlier, as subtle as it seemed. The tint of red mottling his papery skin was hint enough. Kronos kept his seat, wondering if the head priest would leave without being dismissed. The Danaphi remained there, lips pressed into a thin line. Kronos allowed himself a slight smile.
Kronos stood slowly, looking over the mostly untouched food before asking his own question, “Who do you pray to, Danaphi?” He listened, no hair over his delicately pointed ears to obscure sound’s path. He could hear the shifting of weight from foot to foot, the whisper of cloth with that minute shuffle. The man’s breaths were soft but ragged. Kronos could hear the wear of his years.
“You already know.”
The truth was highly regarded by the Church. If a specific inquiry was made, a specific answer was given in suit. If a vague question was asked, a vague answer was all that it required. There were many ways to sidestep the truth. Kronos had not been specific enough to hear the name spoken, but with what he was given, there was no doubt.
Sighing, Kronos left the Danaphi. He could dismiss himself. Kronos had too many other matters to attend to without the Danaphi considered.
