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- Herausgeber: WS
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Serie: OldEarth Encounter
- Sprache: Englisch
Enjoy a family saga novel series that spans generations, traveling from Earth to the outer reaches of the universe.
Britain in the fifth century was a land torn apart by war, while Melchior was a man torn by his own choices. His son is accused of murder, his daughter is forced to marry a brutal king, and his sister is driving him mad, but a prophetic vision saves him from despair. Conflicting alien races must decide if the planet is ripe for plunder or if humanity is worth saving.
Where the Newearth world began, before Last of Her Kind, discover OldEarth Encounter.
RELATIONSHIP-CENTERED, HISTORICAL SCI-FI
HUMANITY IS BEING OBSERVED.
ARE WE WORTH SAVING?
One extended family traverses history through Aram, Ishtar, and Neb in a world of wild beasts, craven spirits, and noble souls. Generations later, in the first century AD, Aram’s descendant, Georgios, battles a world of dark secrets, deceptive promises, and hope renewed. Four hundred years later, Georgios’ descendant, Melchior, struggles against opposing forces while trying to hold his family together.
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Seitenzahl: 557
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
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OldEarth
MELCHIOR
—ENCOUNTER—
A.K. Frailey
Copyright 2025 A.K. Frailey
ISBN number of eBook edition: 979-8-9943251-5-5
ISBN of print book: 978-1-7323952-5-1
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permissions, contact [email protected].
Cover Design: A. K. Frailey and James Hrkach
A. K. Frailey Books
THE WRITINGS OF A. K. FRAILEY
Books for the Mind and Spirit
https://akfrailey.com/
Contemporary Literary Fiction
OLDTOWN Fly, Sparrow, Fly
OLDTOWN Brothers Born
Historical Science Fiction Novels
OldEarth ARAM Encounter
OldEarth Ishtar Encounter
OldEarth Neb Encounter
OldEarth Georgios Encounter
OldEarth Melchior Encounter
Science Fiction Novels
Homestead
Last of Her Kind
Newearth Justine Awakens
Newearth A Hero’s Crime
Newearth Progeny
Newearth Relevance
Short Stories
It Might Have Been—And Other Short Stories 2nd Edition
One Day at a Time and Other Stories
Spice of Life and Other Stories
Encounter Science Fiction Short Stories & Novella 2nd Edition
Inspirational Non-Fiction
The Road Goes Ever On: A Christian Journey Through The Lord of the Rings
My Road Goes Ever On: Spiritual Being, Human Journey 2nd Edition
My Road Goes Ever On: A Timeless Journey
My Road Goes Ever: On Rise Again
Children’s Book
The Adventures of Tally-Ho
Wise Home
Wise Home on Lily Pad Pond
Poetry
Hope’s Embrace & Other Poems 2nd Edition
Audible Versions Available.
Check book details on Amazon for current listings.
Dedication
To loving husbands, faithful wives,
and their unpredictable families.
Their roaring like that of a lion,
They shall roar like young lions.
Yea they shall roar, and take hold of the prey,
And they shall keep fast hold of it,
And there shall be none to deliver it.
And they shall make a noise against them that day,
Like the roaring of the sea;
We shall look towards the land,
And behold darkness of tribulation,
And the light is darkened with mist thereof.
~ISAIAH 5:29-30
And the redeemed of the Lord shall return,
And shall come into Sion with praise,
And everlasting joy shall be upon their heads:
They shall obtain joy and gladness,
And sorrow and mourning shall flee away.
~ISAIAH 35:10
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Authors’ Books
About the Author
Prologue
Landscape of Their Days
—Planet Helm—
Song, in her petite elven form and dressed in a dark green tunic over gray leggings, strolled along the wooded glen, soft brown soil cushioning each step while pink blossoms waved in a gentle breeze. She stopped and breathed in the deliciously sweet scent of spring.
Birds twittered from the branches: bluebirds, redhearts, and goldenhues. Even a pair of orangefires insisted on wishing her a good morning.
She smiled and bowed in the customary greeting of Bhuac and nature’s citizens.
A fierce greenhawk swooped in and, with its bulky body, bristled, sending the gentler folk into a frightened frenzy. The joy-filled chirping turned to cawing and sharp screams of distress.
Her heart twisting, Song watched, helpless to alter the scene, for though she ruled the planet, her influence in the wild only reached so far. As the spiritual leader of the Bhuac world, she joined compassionate understanding with honest realism. Though leadership was not her chosen role, she accepted what fate and her mother’s last plaintive request—save her people—demanded. Today, she must be brave as well as wise.
Pounding steps along the wooded path turned her attention. A figure jogged forward, long black hair flowing over thin shoulders, clear eyes narrowed in concentration. A strong woman suffering from unaccustomed weakness.
Kelesta?A Bhuac who had chosen to marry an Ingot, even such a noble one as Zuri, bears a unique burden.
Slapping her hand against her chest, the woman came to a skidding halt before Song and heaved deeply to catch her breath. “They’re going back!”
Song’s heart clenched; she froze. As if understanding the gravity of the moment, the feathered feud ceased, and silence descended. Only the sun continued to shine unabated. With a start, Song realized that she could not sense a thing. She could never foretell the future, but she could usually see through deception. There was no lie in Kelesta, only fear and confusion in the face of an unknown future. The solid ground of tradition and experience had fallen away.
“Did you hear me?” The woman drew closer, her hand reaching, either to awaken her mentor or to grasp needed strength.
Song nodded. “I heard. The Luxonians and Crestas are returning to Earth.” She forced a calm smile. “It is good to see you again, Kelesta. Where are your husband and daughter now?”
A darted glance at the sky and a facial spasm spoke louder than words. “They’ve gone too.” Kelesta’s gaze fell. “Ark passed on, and his son Tarragon is taking his place.” She straightened her shoulders. “Teal is sick, and Sterling is…preoccupied. A Luxonian named Mauve has stolen his heart.” She sucked in a fresh breath, like one readying herself for painful truth-telling. “Zuri wants to teach Nova about humanity’s true nature. Perhaps to make room in her for”—Kelesta flapped her arms like a bird perched on the edge of flight—“something.” She shrugged. “She certainly isn’t interested in me.”
Freeing herself from the snare of professional distance that had held her for much too long, Song wrapped her arm around the young Bhuaci woman. “She loves you—she just doesn’t know it yet.”
With a muffled sob against the older woman’s shoulder, Kelesta gave way to tears. “She can’t love someone she doesn’t know. She refuses to even consider what Zuri and I offer.”
The sun, still on its ascent, shone brightly from the golden sky. “Let’s return and have a morning cup with biscuits and honey-jam. You’ve come home just in time to help me face the coming storm. Like the daughter I never had, we can help each other through these hard times.” She braced herself. “Suffering is the price we all pay—for our families and our world.” She glanced at the sky. “Humanity measures time in such small increments; they do not see the landscape of their days. They are about to undergo a momentous change, and they have no idea of the long-range repercussions.”
“But what about Zuri, Nova—and all the rest?”
Song clasped Kelesta’s hand and started down the path, her feet padding on the soft, springing soil. “They must learn too. It is what all the living must do, or they die in stagnation.”
Kelesta brushed a low hanging branch out of her way, pink blossoms falling on the path as she kept in step with Song. “But what if she learns the wrong lesson and refuses her father and me? What if we lose our daughter?”
Tears aching behind her eyes, Song admired the trees’ glory and silently beckoned the spirit that gave life to the birds. Give me strength. “Freedom is the highest praise our Creator can offer us.” She squeezed her friend’s hand as the birds burst into fresh song. “It’s our trial to endure what our loved ones choose.”
Chapter One
Hairy Hedgehogs
—Britain, Fifth Century—
Melchior felt the sneeze pulsing through his head like liquid fire. Squeezed under his bed, arms lodged tightly against his body, he had no opportunity to stem the rushing tide. “Agh! If-only, Chloe-dusted, more-thoroughly! Slovenly house-maaaaaid! Achoo!”
The smarting pain to his head when he smacked his skull against the wooden frame definitely checked the relief of the explosion. Melchior grimaced. The real object of his interest lay just out of reach. He stretched as far as his short stature would allow, but the vellum roll merely sat there, completely indifferent to his struggle.
“Aw! Hairy hedgehogs! Why can’t I do this one thing? Why does everything have to be so damnably difficult?”
“Father! Faaaather!”
Melchior’s head smashed against the underside of his bed once again as he struggled to extricate himself before his daughter entered the room and found her noble father’s backside peeking out from under the bedstead. He had his reputation to protect...among other things. But Melchior’s respectability could hardly cloak his body at this crucial moment. Although he wiggled backwards as fast as he could, the sneezes grew in proportion to his anxiety. “Oh, Mother Most Holy, I’ll say my devotions more regularly if only—”
“Father...? Father! What in Wodin’s name are you doing down there?”
Melchior’s whole body slumped against the dusty floor. “One more incident like this,”—his eldest daughter had warned him just yesterday in her most despairing tone—“and I’ll have to send for Aunt Martha.”
Yes, yes! Roaring rabbits! He was getting old, and perhaps a tad bit forgetful, but that wasn’t what led him to squiggle under the bedstead. He had a perfectly good reason for getting down on all fours and lodging almost his entire body between his hard bed and the dusty floorboards. It was all because of that treacherous roll of vellum. He needed it. He must have it! Who cared for dignity when the whole world waited on the brink of despair for this one piece of momentous news?
Angels above be praised! He had discovered the most amazing thing. He, Melchior, son of Jeremiah and Freda, simple thane, wordsmith, and inventor had discovered—well, it had been revealed to him in a dream—the one unifying principle of reality! He knew it, and he knew he knew it. Or at least he had known it last night when he woke up in the pitch black with the vision still clear in his mind.
He had done what any intelligent, honest, decent man would do. He struck a flame to his candle, retrieved his quill, and, snatching his precious roll that contained all his inspirations, wrote down this most amazing bit of universal truth. Why, the world would never be the same once he shared what he had learned!
After having scribbled down the vision in its entirety, exhaustion overwhelmed him. He carefully rolled the vellum and placed it beside his bed. When he awoke this morning, he remembered his great good luck, but to his horror, he saw no sign of his treasure. He searched frantically all over the room, tearing it to pieces. Not that there was much to tear apart; his personal possessions consisted only of a bed, a desk with one leg slightly shorter than the others, and a single straight-backed chair. He had tossed his clothes upon the floor in his desperate search...or had they been there already? Never mind that!
Perhaps the roll had merely fallen and rolled under the bed? When he’d gotten down on all fours, which was no easy feat, he could see the edge of what looked very much like his precious document. Without premeditated thought, he began to squiggle...and thus...here he lay...bare legs sticking out from under his bed. What else might be laid bare, he shuddered to think.
“Father, are you ill? Having a fit of some kind
Melchior sighed.
“Oliver! Come here! I think Father has had a fit and died half under his bed! Hurry!”
“Hurry, Oliver!” mimicked Melchior under his breath. “Hurry and save your already dead father! Bah!”
Before either Oliver or his eldest daughter, Adele, could rescue him, Melchior managed to squiggle backwards the last bit and fully extricated himself from the humiliation into which he had plunged himself.
He sat there, his head propped on his arm, which was propped rather casually upon his knee. He stared at his two children, rather surprised that the whole brood hadn’t followed them up the stairs into his little sanctuary. After all, their house only had a few rooms, and every squirrel and bird knew exactly what went on inside each. He blinked like a cat as he waited for the inevitable.
“Father, what were you doing? You scared me half to death! I thought...well...I don’t know what I thought, but—”
Melchior raised his hand wearily. “Don’t say another word. I know what you imagined, and I must say, you’ve a deplorable lack of faith in your father. Do you think I’d die in such an unceremonious way? When I’m ready to depart for the next world, I’ll let you know.”
He looked at his son, whose mouth hung slightly open. Although Oliver possessed a kind and gentle soul, he was not the brightest candle on the lampstand. But he was strong, and that was worth something. “Help your father to his feet, Oliver.”
Oliver obliged.
Melchior surveyed his eldest daughter and then his son. His shoulders slumped. They were truly the kindest people he knew, but times were hard, and there was so much decency being lost from their everyday world that his heart nearly broke when he thought of it. He remembered the stories his father and grandfather used to tell of the Roman days and how things used to be. But now, all was rot and ruin. There was little of the old grandeur left.
If only his wife, Edwina, had not passed away, leaving him to manage everything. He still owned a small portion of his lands. As a full-fledged thane, he maintained five hides as the law demanded. And he possessed a name and reputation as an educated man. He was considered wise in a land of ignorant, inarticulate.... Oh, never mind! He must not think of it. If only Edwina had been able to pass along more of her own noble strength. But she had been so busy raising the babies and maintaining the household that she’d had little time to speak about the past and what they had known—their honorable name and inheritance stolen.
Melchior forced himself into the present. “Where are the others?”
Oliver stared, but Adele spoke up in her usual brisk fashion. “They’ve gone to the festival. Don’t you remember, Father? You gave permission last week. Lord Gerard is holding a feast in honor of his daughter’s betrothal to Lord Marlow, with games and races and food and drink. You promised everyone might attend.”
“At this hour? Why, the sun has just risen!”
Adele studied her father, one eyebrow raised. “You’ve been up half the night again, haven’t you? Oh, Father!”
Melchior grimaced at the reproach for he had been up half the night; undoubtedly the morning had flown by while he slumbered, but still... Melchior fell to his knees again.
Adele shrieked. “What now, Father?”
“My roll! My parchment fell on the floor—that’s why I was half-buried under the bed when you found me.” Melchior struggled to his feet and carefully appraised his two children, eyeing not only their size but also their agility and mental acuity. He pointed to his daughter. “Adele, get under there and retrieve my roll. It’s very important, and I must have it!”
Adele shook her head in silent reproach before she dropped to her knees, wiggled under the bed, and returned with the roll pinched daintily between two fingers. She held the dusty vellum out to her father. “What’s it this time?”
Melchior pursed his lips, although his eyebrows furrowed anxiously. What if he had imagined the whole thing? What if he had dreamed that he had discovered the one great unifying principle of the universe? Honesty battled with prudence. Prudence won. “I’ve discovered something very important, but I’m not ready to reveal it yet. The world, as it stands today, isn’t ready for what I have to offer. We live in a land of fools ruled by barbarians.”
“Father! Don’t speak so loudly! King Radburn is very powerful and has many spies. Besides, we owe him our allegiance.” Adele’s gaze dropped; her cheeks flushed.
Practically hissing, Melchior wagged a finger in admonishment. “Yes, they are rather treasonous words, but they have meaning—at least they should.” He’d had more intelligent conversations with merchants than with lords, and the Saxon king was the most loutish man he had ever met. King? Melchior could name three hunting dogs with more sense. But that was none of his business. All he had to do was manage his own estate, keep his children alive, and stay out of trouble.
He snatched the roll from his daughter’s outstretched hand. “Yes, well, this will help to keep my mind on better things.” A sudden frown crushed his heavy brows over his eyes. “Why, then, aren’t you two at the celebration?”
Adele ran her fingers through her hair, a sheepish grin spreading over her face. “We’re going, but I had things to attend to. You want something to eat? Some bread and meat?”
Melchior rubbed his lean belly. Yes, food would definitely help. Hot food and a mug of warm ale would go a long way toward improving his mood. Then he could read over his work in the quiet of an empty house. Peace and quiet? This would be a prize! A worrisome thought stopped him cold. “Is everyone going?”
“Not Selby. I’m leaving him behind to watch over things. In case you need something.”
Melchior put on his most benevolent face, a wide smile to match his wide, innocent eyes. “Ah, let the poor man go. Even if he can’t partake, he can watch, and you might slip him a little something.”
Adele pursed her lips, her scowl disagreeing. “I don’t know if Lord Gerard would like that. Slaves aren’t invited to such things. Father, what can you be thinking?”
Melchior could feel his opportunity slipping away. Selby had an uncanny ability of finding him alone when he least desired company. The old fool would sidle forward with a ridiculous complaint or some “momentous” news: the cow had calved, the oats were up, it looked like a storm was coming, and then the garrulous codger would start to chatter. He could chatter a man’s two good ears right off his head.
Melchior aimed his gaze and spoke so clearly that no one could mistake his meaning. “Adele, I order you to take Selby and the rest with you. Say that they’re to help with the children, the cooking, or the cleanup. Say whatever you wish but take them and stay a good long time!”
Adele sniffed. Clearly, she understood all too well. “Please, Father, don’t let your eccentricities cause trouble. Lord Gerard’s nephew Robert will be there today, and he might—”
Oliver cleared his throat, his gaze shifting from his father to his sister.
Adele took the hint. “As you say, Father. We’ll leave in a few moments. I just need to get my cloak.” Adele glanced at her brother. “Get Father’s food, will you, Oliver? See that Selby carries in the tray and a flask of ale.”
Obedient as always, Oliver turned away.
Melchior watched his son go with an ache of regret. There was so little to praise. Suddenly his heart smote him, and Melchior called out to his son’s retreating figure. “Have a good time, Oliver! Dance with one of the pretty maidens for me.”
Oliver turned and considered his father. His eyes mournful. Without a word, he continued on his way.
As soon as everyone was gone, Melchior picked up his scroll and carefully unrolled it by the window. He stared wide-eyed, anxious to uncover its marvelous contents. First, there was the part about the stars’ alignment, which he had begun to chart five years ago after he had seen a propitious sign leading him to believe that his future was exceedingly bright. After a bit, he had become frustrated with the clouds forever covering the night stars, so he began to record his family tree, and, although it wasn’t particularly detailed, it pleased him to have the whole family in one place. Then, of course, there was that bit about animal husbandry...but his interest had faded after a disease nearly carried off all the cows. In the margins, he printed quotes of learned men that he soon memorized. He used to recite them at gatherings to amaze his family and impress his friends.
Finally, here it was. Why? What’s happened? The first few words were clear, for he’d still had some ink on his pen; he must have wet it with his tongue as was his usual habit but... Oh, flummoxed foxes! He had forgotten to dip his pen in ink. All that remained of his vision were some scratches and stray marks where his fingers had smudged the material. Just a few faint words were all that bore testimony to his vision, his wonderful knowledge that would save the world from disgrace and utter ruin!
Melchior stepped away from the light and fell heavily onto his bed, his hands hanging at his sides. How could this have happened? How could he have both been given such a gift and then had it snatched away all in one pitiless day? Did God not care for him? Did the Heavenly Host laugh at his attempts to understand his mighty world? Or was this the work of the devil to send him straight into the arms of the mistress of despair? If so, Beelzebub almost won.
Sighing, Melchior rose from the bed and returned to the light streaming through the window. He noticed a few readable traces upon the parchment. Melchior considered throwing the whole document into the fire, but then he remembered the cost of vellum, and he would have nothing to write upon if he threw this away.
Bah! What does it matter? The greatest knowledge in the universe has just slipped through my fingers. I am not likely to have that vision twice! And I can’t even remember the first thing about it other than it was lovely, and I was happier thinking about it than I had ever been in my life. But it’s gone now. The treasure has been stolen not only from my grasp, but from my mind as well. Oh, Lovely Mother, have you no pity for your servant?
Melchior heard the song of a bird just outside his window. It was a perky sparrow bouncing about from branch to branch as if it had nothing better to do than dance away the day. But as Melchior stared, the light fell on the vellum in such a way that the first scratches were discernible, and Melchior bent in closer. “What’s this?”
“And he showed me a river of water of life, clear as crystal...”
Clenching the vellum in frustration, Melchior shouted, “What in eternity does that mean?” Yet his heart was lightened, for although his entire vision did not come back to him, he did sense the unspeakable joy he had known when he had first sat upon his chair in the blackness of night and wrote the message he was sure had come from God. Well, if God did not want him to know the whole message now, so be it. God was a mystery. He still had hidden within him this marvelous secret, and when God wished him to remember, he would recall the vision in full. And next time, he would dip his quill in ink!
Chapter Two
No Rest for the Weary
Melchior leaned back on his chair with the vellum limp in his hand and considered his people’s long, distinguished history. Why am I here, Lord? At least I have a few moments to think sensibly—and perhaps carve and write a bit, the work of a man of spirit, not a beast of burden.
His gaze strayed out the window to the tree line in the distance.
The forests marched up the hills and over the horizon unto the sea where they threw up their arms in amazement at the sight of so much water, which none of them could drink. The land barely remembered the Roman roads that traversed the hills and valleys. Flowers with their slight green stems conquered the stone and mortar that had once been the pride of Rome. Roads to castle ruins whispered of kingdoms now burned and abandoned. The Anglos and Saxons were hardy conquerors. They knew how to destroy that which they could neither understand nor control. Reading and writing were not for them. You could neither eat nor wear words upon a page. Thoughts were but phantoms while deeds left their mark.
Melchior’s family tree, sketched upon his vellum, was incomplete, but he knew his ancestors had prospered for some time on the Celtic island to the west. His earliest remembered ancestor had been a strong, valiant man by the name of Georgios, but where he had come from and what had led him to the edge of the world, no one knew save God alone. From Georgios had sprung a mighty line of goodly men who eventually settled in the Roman-Celtic lands. They, too, thrived until barbarians arrived.
The cry rose from despairing lips, “Invaders are driving us toward the sea, but the sea offers us no home!” Famine and destitution settled in, and only the strong and the fortunate survived. Many sold their children just so that the little ones might, at least, have the scraps from their master’s table. It was said, “It’s better to live like a dog than die like one.”
Three generations passed since Melchior’s grandfather ruled his holdings with proud dignity. His own father, Jeremiah, had been a strong but shrewd man who knew better than to deny their defeat. Yet he would not despair of the last hope of a valiant heart—that one day his people would see prosperity again. Using ancient names passed down through oral tradition, Jeremiah had named his sons after the wise men who came seeking Christ. He assured them that, though they may not see the hope of salvation with their earthly eyes, they should keep the flame of hope kindled, for one day they would be well rewarded. “God does not abandon His own.”
Melchior’s brothers, Balthazar and Caspar, died in one of the many famines that nearly destroyed the remnant of their culture, but as the lands recovered so did Melchior. He had inherited his father’s intelligence and embraced the memories of his brothers’ gentleness. He learned to work the plow, handle a scythe, and organize the servants and slaves into a useful mob. Now that his daughter was grown, he left the care of the estate to her.
Melchior could barely suppress the ironic grin that twisted his lips out of countenance whenever he thought of his estates. What estates they were! He owned an unruly forest, which hid uncountable deer and a multitude of small game and a little more than a handful of thatched houses, although six of them were rented out to servants who worked their meager farms. Every family had at least one small garden, though several had two or three. Some families had a talent for raising more weeds than vegetables, but the wheat crop had done well for several seasons now, and Melchior had hopes they would not starve this winter. They also grew oats, rye, and barley. The barley was used as a cereal and the base for beer. He made sure that plenty of land was set aside for the barley crop. If one had to starve, it was always better to do so in a cheerful frame of mind. There were also two pigsties and one hill that had enough grass for the grazing of a small herd of cattle.
Melchior never liked to roam there after he had seen a man gored to death by an angry bull. His slaves cared for the cattle and, though he winced at the idea of someone getting injured, it would be nothing compared to the trouble he would have if one of his animals maimed a freeman. Then he would have to pay the wergild, and that could add up to more than a poor man could pay. Though holding lands made him a thane, he was by no means rich. He’d known churls who, with their craft and invention, had managed to hoard up greater sums than he had ever seen in his life.
Despite his misfortunes, Melchior knew he was a lucky man, for he still had his eldest daughter, Adele, living under his roof, managing his household. She nearly despaired of ever marrying, but secretly Melchior was relieved when every suitor had turned out to be unsuitable. One was too old, and as he was the first to ask, Adele, at fourteen, had felt that she had time and luck in her future and so turned him down. She could not have known that a series of battles would take a great many eligible men off to the northern coasts, where they promptly fell, never to offer marriage to anyone. After that, she’d had only one other suitor, but he had a glib tongue and over-merry wit that set Melchior’s teeth on edge. He swore he would not have a fool for a son-in-law and wouldn’t allow the man on his property. The next news Melchior had heard of the young fop was that he had died trying to jump his horse over a gully. Melchior had merely remarked, “It was a fitting end.”
Weary of his reminiscences, Melchior supped on venison, bread, and ale. He then clumped down the stairs and sat on a bench near the dwindling fire. He began carving the intricate edging of a fish on a signboard he had prepared. He loved the project, for he found his muscles relaxed, and he could let his mind wander into invigorating territory.
After a bit, he decided to go outside and survey his estates, evaluate the crops, notice which tools needed mending, and pay close attention to the stables, for horses were as valuable as slaves. After a long, meandering stroll, Melchior considered the descending sun. It was late, and the dusk was rising, but he still had time to compose something before the throng returned.
He glanced toward the path that led to Lord Gerard’s estate, which was blocked from his sight by the gentle curve of a green hill. His second son, Wilfred, would have taken the best horse, leaving the second and third best for Adele and Oliver. The other children, Gilda, Martha, and Thomas had been taken ahead by the servants. Undoubtedly, they’d be content to eat and be entertained for some time longer.
Melchior scratched his grey beard. The idea of translating ancient scripture into a language any churl could understand sparked his interest, but he wondered if it was worth the effort. There were some worthy churls who still thought like men, but they were few and far between. Still, it would keep his writing skills sharp and stand as a worthy topic the next time he was forced to meet with the landowners. No one would understand what he was talking about, of course, but if he said that he knew a good story, everyone might quiet down and listen. Melchior grinned as the image clarified itself in his mind. There was enough material in Genesis alone to last him through years of forced gatherings.
He was about to step inside when he stopped, perplexed. The distant thundering of hooves pounded nearer. Melchior closed his eyes. Sucking in a deep breath to manage his disappointment, he turned and considered his two-storied estate.
It wasn’t imposing by any standards. He did not gild his house with carvings on every post and beam. He preferred a solid structure, wood-framed with a steeply peaked thatch roof. Gazing fondly at the top floor where he slept and worked, he sighed. His gaze slid to the large rectangular first floor with stone fireplaces at each end. The front doors were thrown open, and he could see all the way to the kitchen with the sitting room off to the side. The ample storage rooms and well-fitted bedrooms connecting to the main hall were discretely concealed. Heavy oak beams ran down the center while lesser beams crisscrossed at angles. The extra boards used for large gatherings leaned against the walls, and thick straw covered the floor. Wide enclosed benches made extra beds when they had guests.
Melchior’s heart swelled with pride.
A cow mooed in the darkness.
Past her milking time, no doubt.
The thunderous hooves shook Melchior out of his reverie. By Heaven, isn’t a man allowed one peaceful evening?
Bent low over his horse, Wilfred came into view. His horse ran as if a pack of wolves chewed its tail.
Melchior scowled.
Wilfred was often foolish, but he was never known for cruelty.
As impatience warred with anxiety, Melchior waited for Wilfred to jump down and explain himself.
But the boy did nothing of the sort. He flew past his father at an alarming speed.
“How now, Wilfred? Explain yourself! Where are you going?”
The youth spoke not a word but kept his head down as his beast spurred forward.
Dust kicked high and made a swirling haze, cloaking the departing figure.
Melchior stared, perplexed, and waited for the dust to settle before he turned once again, this time to a larger number of thundering hooves pounding near. Foreboding chilled Melchior’s bones.
Five horsemen charged into view. Each man bent low and rode as if the devil himself drove them on.
Melchior considered stepping onto the path, forcing the cavalcade to stop, but he hesitated. They’d just run me over. Instead, he stepped onto his wide porch and called out, “What’s happened? Why the haste?”
Dust enveloping his figure, the last man flung back only a single word. “Murder!”
Chapter Three
Love and Jealousy
—Hours Earlier—
Adele dressed in her finest—though not very fancy—blue dress, rested her heavy head against a post in the noisy, bustling hall and considered the scene before her.
In a bedazzling embroidered gown, Corliss, Lord Gerard’s daughter, wound a long, dark strand of hair about her index finger. She stared adoringly at her betrothed, and when his gaze encountered hers, she turned shyly away. Her next move involved leaning in tantalizingly close to Lord Marlow’s chest but not quite touching him.
Adele sniffed. She could learn a lot from Corliss, if only she was willing to smile when she didn’t mean it and marry a brute she didn’t love.
Despite her proximity to her betrothed, Corliss still canvassed the room for appreciative attention.
In his clean breeches and white tunic top, Wilfred stood by the kitchen door and stared unabashedly at the woman.
Corliss winked at him and grinned.
What foolish daring!
The ruckus of loud conversations mixed with dense smoke rising from the central fire gave Adele a headache. The smoke was supposed to swirl up the chimney, but with all the stewing and roasting and the considerable number of people eating, drinking, talking, laughing, and stirring the air, the confused smoke could not find its natural escape. If not for Lord Gerard’s handsome nephew Robert—who leaned casually against a post on the opposite side of the room, his blue eyes occasionally turning her way—Adele would have joined the children playing outside.
Commotion caught her attention.
Lord Gerard abruptly broke free from a group of drunken companions and stomped to the high table perched upon a dais. He lifted his cup, sloshing the dark ale, stared like a happy hound, and shouted for all to hear, “Hear me! Momentous news! As you know, I’ve been blessed with the loveliest daughter this side of Hadrian’s Wall, and Lord Marlow has asked for her hand.” He pointed at his daughter, sloshing more of his drink.
Acclaims and yells greeted this common knowledge as if it were a revelation from the gods.
Lord Gerard waved impatiently. “Listen to me! I’ve accepted his offer, and I want you all to know and remember that I am offering him possession of half my lands, upon my death, to keep for all posterity.”
Loud exclamations shook the rafters.
Lord Gerard held out his hand. “But know this too! Listen! You’re my witnesses! He’s promised me a bride price of twenty head of cattle, fifteen beehives, and ten sheep. And he says he will double that when he sends the morning gift!”
Feet stomping, spear butts pounding the wooden floor, and loud yells both praising and swearing by the gods at the immensity of the gift drowned out all further revelations. Apparently satisfied with this uproar, Lord Gerard clumped down unsteadily from his perch and strode to his daughter. He gave her an extravagant kiss on the cheek and then a swat on the backside, as if he could not decide whether she was a grown woman to be congratulated or a small child to be teased.
Adele’s lip curled. The spectacle could have been worse, but it didn’t seem fair that a maiden a full five years her junior should get married with so much good fortune while she, so capable and hardworking, still went unnoticed by any male worth considering.
At least Corliss was marrying one of the few men Adele could never, under any circumstances, desire. She shuddered.
Lord Marlow stood at the head table with bronze skin and thick, black hair that fell over his eyes and in heavy waves down his shoulders. How much of his ample middle was muscle, fat, or padding from his heavy clothing? Three rings and several metal armbands decorated his person. Forever speaking in guttural tones, his expression, when he wasn’t looking at his beloved, tended toward dark and brooding.
Adele had heard rumors about a cruel streak in the man, but she hated to give credence to the servants’ gossip. They always imagined horrible things.
Selby had once warned her that he had seen Lord Marlow whip a man nearly to death for taking his best horse without permission. Later, it turned out that the man had needed the horse to get help for his badly injured son, but Lord Marlow did not care for that excuse and so had the beaten man and his family moved off his lands.
Adele had insisted that Selby exaggerated. But the old slave only nodded gravely and said that men who live on another man’s ancestral estate tend to bear secret grudges. “They’ll never rest easy.”
Adele watched Lord Marlow closely and wondered if he would rest easy with his bride.
Oliver roamed about the room, watching but never engaging any man in conversation. He noticed Wilfred’s pointed stares at Corliss but merely shook his head, ignoring the implications. The room was large but not large enough for all the smoke and noise. He edged his way toward the door and, as the sun neared the horizon, decided to check on the horses.
As he crossed the courtyard, he noticed a commotion, and he edged up closer. Young children gathered in play, his younger sisters Martha and Gilda among them, and sure enough, his youngest sibling Thomas gripped Lady Nadine’s hand for all his worth. Oliver smiled. Thomas had the uncanny ability to find the highest-class person in a setting and attach himself like a barnacle to a ship. Unfortunately, that led to uncomfortable situations, for few lords liked small children and none liked to have their feasting and drinking interrupted. Oliver watched the scene from a distance. He could tell, without adding up the details, that Lady Nadine was a disappointed woman. She bore a smile the same way that Romans bore a standard in battle.
“Catch, my Lady!” A small child called to the noblewoman, who was doing her best to attend to several calls at once.
Thomas yanked Lady Nadine’s hand, intent on engaging her full attention.
Alarmed, Oliver stepped forward.
But Gilda, preternaturally mature at twelve, raced up and grabbed Thomas’ hand. “Leave her be, you pest!”
Thomas howled, but Oliver rushed forward and scooped Thomas into his arms. “You want to go to the stables? I bet the Lord’s horses are the grandest in the land!”
Thomas’ eyes darted from Lady Nadine to his big brother who, it was clear, had full possession of his body. He screamed louder.
Lady Nadine squeezed her eyes shut as she pressed her hand to her temple. Trembling, she sank down on a bench.
Oliver grimaced.
Gilda shook her head and pointed, directing Oliver to take Thomas away.
In accustomed obedience, Oliver nodded and toted Thomas toward the stables, the little boy’s legs swinging and his screams growing hoarse as they went.
Gilda drew a sigh of relief and then looked to the assembled group: children of various churls and servants.
Standing in the middle of the green courtyard, Lady Nadine should not have been spending her time this way. Her husband would think it beneath her dignity. But she sought out children, and they enjoyed her kindness and welcome. Pressing her hand over her heart, her breath grew as ragged as a ripped sheet. Illness was common enough, and Lady Nadine never rested easy.
Gilda’s throat constricted at the sight. She glanced around. If I was married to a man like Lord Gerard, I’d be uneasy too.
It was true that Lord Gerard had important things on his mind, what with the upcoming council concerning the borderlands. Heated arguments had broken out over who owned the fine woods leading into the forest.
Her father had stayed determinedly out of the dispute. The last time he delved into a border question he had discovered five of his sheep with their throats cut.
Gilda stepped nearer. “Would you like some refreshment, my Lady?”
“It’s strange that you, daughter of Melchior, should care what happens to me.” The woman stared fixedly at Gilda. “At least we can sit in peace awhile. Call the servants to take the children away.” She dropped onto a solid wood bench.
Gilda ran to the servants’ kitchen. “The Lady is worn with care! Come, take the children.”
A few servants exchanged looks, but they slowly budged themselves from their comfortable stools.
As the women shuffled forward, gathering the aimless and discontented ragamuffins, Gilda propped her hands on her hips, silently urging them to hurry.
Selby slouched toward the stable.
“Selby, take Martha and Thomas home. They’re being troublesome.
Selby retreated into the stable and just as quickly returned with Thomas on his shoulders. He took Martha by the hand. “We best hurry. The cows need milking.”
As soon as the crowd thinned, Gilda ran back to Lady Nadine, imagining herself taking the lady’s hand and leading her toward the hall for a nourishing meal. But the bench was empty, the courtyard nearly barren of inhabitants.
Gilda ran in a wide circle, wondering where a weary woman could have gone in such a short time.
Wilfred pelted past her.
“Wilfred, come here! I lost Lady Nadine...” But her brother rushed into the stable, oblivious to her pleas. A grumble rose inside. “Well, I’d think you’d care!”
Gilda stood undecided, but then the smell of roasted pork made inroads into her mind, and her stomach rumbled. She turned toward the feasting hall.
A hand gripped her shoulder.
Oliver, out of breath and scowling, stopped her. “Don’t go in, Gilda!”
Gilda stared at her brother. “I’m looking for Lady Nadine. Did you see her pass this way?”
Oliver glanced over his shoulder, then bent in low and whispered, “She didn’t pass this way, and she won’t be passing this way again.”
His solemn tone, wide eyes, and the bright pink spots coloring his otherwise pale cheeks sent chills down Gilda’s spine. “Why? What’s happened?”
Oliver clasped her hand in his own. “It’s time we’re home. Selby is gathering the servants.”
“But Father won’t expect us so soon. Feasts usually last into the night.”
“This one won’t.”
The two walked forward in silence. Just before they entered the stables, they were thrust to the side as Wilfred, astride his horse, broke forth at a full gallop.
As she tried to yank free of Oliver’s grasp, Gilda screamed, “Wilfred!”
But Oliver clutched Gilda’s hand tighter.
Wilfred’s horse pounded furiously down the road.
The two could only stare at the vanishing shadow, the thumping hooves quickly growing faint.
Suddenly, a shriek tore through the air.
Her heart clenched, Gilda jerked free of Oliver’s grip and ran into the deepening gloom toward the hall.
She halted in shock as Adele, normally so calm and controlled, skittered forward with wide, alarmed eyes.
Adele screamed at the top of her lungs, “Run, Wilfred! Run!”
Several men dashed up from behind. One grabbed Adele’s arm, held her in place, and slapped her across the face.
Adele fell to the ground in a heap.
Too shocked to move, Gilda cried out, “No!”
Oliver sped ahead. Before the man could strike again, Oliver tumbled him to the ground and pummeled his head against the earth.
Adele staggered to her feet, her hand over the blazing mark on her face. “Stop, Oliver! Don’t kill him! Oh, Lord, it’ll only make things worse!”
Other men dashed to the stables and mounted horses, ready to give chase. Those who stayed behind grabbed Oliver by the shoulders and pulled him off Robert.
Oliver climbed to his feet, shaking the restraining arms away.
In blind loyalty, Gilda ran to her brother and wrapped her arms around him protectively.
Adele heaved deeps breaths, and her voice trembled, “Lady Nadine has been stabbed!” Tears formed in her eyes as she glanced at her little sister. “The poor woman’s been murdered, and Lord Gerard thinks Wilfred did it!”
Gilda, wretched with horror, could only whisper, “Stabbed? I just left—” Bile burned her throat. “But why does Lord Gerard think—”
“The last thing she said was, ‘Wilfred.’ Lord Gerard swears that he saw Wilfred running away when he found his wife.”
Gilda’s knees buckled, but Oliver caught her and lifted her into his arms.
Lord Gerard barged forward, his pale face taut with strain. He raised a shaking hand to his men. “Don’t bother with them. Undoubtedly, they didn’t know about their brother’s deed. Surely, the man is insane.” He pointed at his nephew. “You’ve better things to do than strike a worthless woman.”
Lord Gerard turned his gaze and glared at Oliver. “Go! And take your ragged servants with you. Don’t think I didn’t notice that you foisted them upon my tables, leeches that you are!” He shook his bejeweled finger. “And tell your father that we’ll not wait to hang his son. It’s our right and duty to see justice done!”
Oliver turned his back on the outraged fool.
Gilda could only cry in silence.
Adele turned once more toward Robert. This time, instead of warm admiration, she felt cold, stinging nausea rise in her throat. She marched faster to keep pace with her brother, and they entered the stables alone.
Chapter Four
Nikolas
Nikolas never felt that all was right with the world, but as a merchant, he knew that a pleasant disposition did much to charm customers into returning a second and a third time. As a tall man with dark hair and blue eyes who took after his father, a man who had made his living from the sea, he had natural benefits. Though his mother had died when he was young, his father, Osborn, had taken him fishing every day, and they had grown to understand each other as few sons and fathers ever could.
His younger sister had not fared so well. She had been fostered out to a wealthy landowner who, after a few years, had adopted her and raised her as his own. Osborn often regaled his son with magnificent stories of great men and women who had started out as fosterlings, though at the mention of his daughter, he’d grow silent and thoughtful.
She had grown up in the southwest, where vast trade opportunities made for high living. Growing strong and beautiful, she married a wealthy man and, by all accounts, lived a charmed life. Still, Nikolas could never be jealous of her handsome situation, for he had the enduring love of his father, which he’d not trade for any fortune—land or coin.
Not that coins had much value these days. Nikolas jingled the few bits he had been given in exchange for his fine goods: a sharp blade with a beautiful bone handle, a set of horn drinking cups engraved with ornate runes to keep evil spirits at bay, and a half-pound of salt.
Like the boy who traded his cow for a king’s promise only to discover that the king was a fool in disguise, he stood in his shop’s drab interior, appraising the oddly shaped coins. Their rough edges and lack of imprint brought a flush to his face. These were homemade coins passed along as a remembrance of better days! Every Saxon would laugh at his stupidity, while any visiting Roman would sniff in superiority.
The Britons were already suspicious of commerce, and they would be more judicious than he. Besides, the natives preferred to hold up in what fortresses they still owned or could wrestle back from the invaders. As a full-blooded Saxon, Nikolas was fully aware of the resentment many Britons felt toward him and his kind. But he also knew that he, as his father before him, had little to do with the momentous changes in this country.
Skirmishes still broke out, and the episodic battles would probably never end, but Nikolas enjoyed life as a churl. As a hard-working man, why shouldn’t he build a home on these lands as well as anyone else? Should the bloodthirsty warriors who came destroying and ravaging get everything?
With these thoughts muddying his concentration, Nikolas didn’t notice the arrival of two men who were as different from him as an oak tree is from a mulberry bush. Both husky and laden with vast muscles, rounded stomachs, and broad chests, their sleeveless, fur-lined tunics tied with twine-knotted belts revealed more about their physiques than Nikolas cared to know.
The first man’s intense glare, tousled brown hair, and deep guttural speech reminded Nikolas of a kettle about to boil. The other man stood nearly as tall, though his hair glowed red, and his eyes reflected the blue sky.
Nikolas’ heart pounded. He forced a smile. It was never wise to show fear to any man, much less to men like these. Just like with wolves, they wouldn’t bother anyone but for the fun of the chase. Killing a person and eating the carcass would be a mere formality.
Nikolas started out bravely enough. “Hello, warriors! If you are looking for food, you’ve come to the wrong place. I sell only simple tools.”
The first man’s twisted grin dropped Nikolas’ stomach to his knees. He clenched his few worthless coins and wondered why he had bothered to get out of bed this morning. I’d have done better to pull the covers over my head and hide from the light of day.
He widened his own smile and pointed toward a row of helmets, shields, spears, and battle axes that he had gleaned off fields before the victors had claimed everything. Nothing but the dregs of battle, but for a poor man they’d be better than nothing. Nikolas’ worse-for-wear-weaponry often did brisk business.
This particular warrior did not seem impressed. His grin turned into a snarl. “We didn’t come to banter with you, trader. My name’s Harold, son of Harold, and this is Terrill. We’ve come from the south on important business. If we wanted some of your wares, we’d have let you know, like this, you see!” Harold peered at Terrill significantly.
With this slight encouragement, Terrill proceeded to do a fairly good imitation of a troll having a temper tantrum. He ripped one of the battle-axes off the wall and threw it to the ground, where it landed with a heavy thud. Terrill’s gloved hand, embedded with iron spikes, glinted in the light.
Trying not to imagine what those metal pieces could do to flesh and bone, Nikolas nodded in sober understanding, but his face grew hot. He may be nothing more than a fisherman turned trader, but he still had the same blood as these two, and he was taller by almost an inch. Still, his eyes darted toward the gloved hand. “What, exactly, can I do for you?”
Terrill thrust his chin out. “You can keep your eyes open, that’s what! You have eyes, don’t you?”
Nikolas chewed his lip. Harold is definitely the brighter of the two.
Harold placed his hand on Terrill’s shoulder and spoke more to the point. “There’s been a murder in the south, and the scoundrel got away. He was last seen heading north. We think his father did some conjuring trick using the powers of his god, but we know the guilty party can’t have gotten far. So, you’re to use those eyes of yours and tell us if you see the son of Melchior come this way.”
Nikolas’ throat went dry, for he knew Melchior well. In truth, his tiny shop was just north of Melchior’s home. His father had often spent time with him, exchanging stories and talking nonsense. When Osborn had died, Melchior had helped to lay him at rest.
A choking sensation gripped his throat. “Which son committed murder?” He knew the kind of men these two represented. Justice and truth meant little to them. If they could brag that they had brought a murderer to justice, they’d sleep well—even if they had hung the wrong man.
Harold leaned in with a conspiratorial whisper. “The second, the cocky one, so full of wild ideas. Had eyes for Lord Gerard’s daughter, he did. Everyone knew it. Bound to come to no good end.”
Nikolas heaved a sigh of relief. At least it wasn’t Oliver. He picked up the fallen battle-ax. “I’ll keep my eyes open, but I doubt he’ll pass this way.”
Terrill pursed his lips and jabbed his finger into Nikolas’ shoulder. “Just see that you do your part! Lord Gerard is grievously upset. He wants this matter taken care of quickly. You understand?”
Even though Nikolas would have liked nothing more than to end the conversation, he couldn’t help asking one more question. “Why? What’s Lord Gerard’s concern in the matter?”
“You fool! It’s his wife that was murdered!”
Nikolas stiffened with horror. He snatched his cloak from a peg and hurried toward the stable, repeating an agonized refrain, “God, no!”
Harold watched the lanky merchant scurry away, astonished at the young man’s daring.
Terrill was not one to handle the unexpected with grace. “Hey, fool, where’re you going? We told you to stay here and keep your eyes open!”
Harold ran up behind Nikolas, grabbed him by the shoulder, and spun him around. “We didn’t give you leave to go!”
Nikolas reached back and, with an ungloved but tightly clenched fist, hit Harold hard on the chin.
Unprepared for the assault, Harold staggered and fell, his hand shooting to the pain in his jaw.
Using his weight effectively, Nikolas pressed his dirty, leather-clad knee hard upon Harold’s throat. “Tell your troll to stand back, or I’ll break your neck!”
Harold didn’t need to gesture much to explain the situation, though he guessed Terrill would be inclined to risk anything to get his hands on Nikolas.
Nikolas, however, continued to put enough pressure on Harold’s throat so that just a few frantic gestures stopped Terrill in his tracks.
Nikolas’ voice dropped to a ragged whisper. “Lord Gerard’s noble wife was my honorable sister, and I’ll know how she died. No rest will comfort my eyes nor will food nourish my insides until I know who did this and see justice done to the fullest measure!” He pressed his knee a final time against Harold’s throat for good measure and then stood.
Without a backward look, Nikolas strode away.
More annoyed than pained, Harold rose to his feet unaided.
Terrill stood frozen, his mouth hanging open.
As Harold rubbed his neck, trying not to look too grateful for still being alive, he spoke hoarsely. “We’ll have to watch that one. He’s not what he appears.”
“I think we should beat him to death.”
Harold smacked his foster brother on the ear. “You oaf! Didn’t you hear him? His sister is Lord Gerard’s wife...his dead wife, I mean. He’ll have the ear of the Lord all right. And his words were not spoken in idleness. I know when a man makes a vow, and that man made a vow he’ll live by.”
Terrill followed the retreating figure with hooded eyes. “Or a vow he will die by.”
Harold nodded, but his eyes shifted from Terrill to the swiftly departing figure on the horizon.
Chapter Five
Hope So
—Lux—
Teal, dressed in a peasant’s brown tunic with a long hood, stood beside a fountain carved to resemble a woman pouring water from her jug into a child’s basin. The water sprayed in a glorious arc, creating rainbows in every direction. Beyond the first note of surprise, Teal refused to care. His fingers flew over his datapad, ideas flowing so fast he could hardly keep up. Despite achy shoulders and a throbbing neck, he wouldn’t slow down.
“There you are! We’ve been looking for you everywhere.” In a white shirt and matching, loose trousers, Sterling flounced forward, a cat-like grin stretching across his face.
His thoughts tumbling to a halt, Teal frowned. “Who’s we?”
Sterling boomed a hearty laugh.
Alarm spread over Teal. He slipped his datapad into a deep pocket and faced his old friend, the newest Supreme Judge.
Drops landed on Sterling’s black hair. He glanced aside and pointed to an outdoor shop and off-world cafe. “Let’s practice eating, shall we? I haven’t tried anything human in ages. What are they concocting these days? Better than that swill you brought me last time, I hope.”
“If I remember correctly, you enjoyed their wine.”
Teal kept pace as Sterling jogged across the quiet street and bounded to the colorful seating arrangement. “Their fruits and vegetables have something to offer—especially when fermented.” As Sterling eyed the menu scrawled in neat script on a mounted board, he waved at a Bhuaci server in petite Elven form.
Dressed in a bright yellow brassiere with a long flowing skirt, the server hustled up smiling. “What would you like? We have drinks and dishes from all parts of the universe. If we don’t know it, we’re quick to learn. Just try us and see.”
Teal plunked down on a chair under a blue awning and rubbed his neck. The throb had grown to a painful ache. “We’ll take a small order of lake fish, carrots, barley bread, and weak beer, Earth-style.” He scrunched his nose at Sterling. “Unless you’d rather try venison?”
Sterling lifted his hands. “I’ll trust your culinary advice.” He glanced around, his gaze searching. “I just hope that you’re ready for what you’ll find when you return.”
Irritation flashed through Teal. “You mean we. We’re returning together, remember? We have a lot to accomplish in a very short time. The Supreme Council wants a report by the end of the cycle, and I have yet to make contact with everyone.” He narrowed his eyes. “What did you mean earlier when you said, we’ve been looking for you?”
Like an Ingot with a short circuit, Sterling’s gaze froze. “I thought I told you. About Mauve. She’s extraordinary. The youngest Luxonian to reach first level in history. A real beauty with a Bhuac’s sensitivity and an Ingot’s calculating sense.”
Teal searched his mind. Mauve?
