living things could survive in the midst of the desert drought, where parching thirst seemed to climb up from below the crusted bake-pan surface, clawing through lungs, throat, and mouth to jump out upon the plain and reign as both as the jester and sovereign of unfulfilled need, delighting in the ache of it. Korel had thought this the talk of superstition, the fear of ignorance, but as he continued eastward across the increasingly barren landscape, a malignant thirst did seem to ooze invisibly from the ground, an anger contained within the rocks, with the forlorn echo of voices trailing on the wind. He continued traveling east, picking up his pace despite the heavy burden of leaf-packed meat swinging from leather cords carried across the breadth of his shoulders. The water supply would last another two or three days, enough to get him across the plain to the eastern mountain foot ahead.
As the sun began to set, long shadows stretched across the caked expanse, the hunger of the flat, wide valley yearning toward him, as if he were a last morsel of food granted the condemned, dying plain upon the eve of its execution. As he did the previous night, Korel sought high ground on which to camp, climbing a short ridge to the south covered with boulders and shallow crevasses, devoid of any plants or life of any kind. Indeed, all the land round about was completely barren, without even a solitary blade of grass or tangle of scrub to break the gray-brown sameness that stretched in every direction to the horizon.
Korel made camp within the boulder field, a location that would assure maximum concealment but also the maximum disadvantage, as the blocky, cluttered terrain would impede him should a quick escape be necessary. Despite this, it seemed the best spot to rest as he laid his burden of meat upon the ground and dug a small pit in which to place it, a shallow grave to hide the scent from any who might seek this place during the night. He covered the leaf-wrapped meat in the earth and looped the cords binding it over a rocky projection in easy reach should a quick evacuation be necessary.
The night closed in rapidly as the wind began singing, a chorus of lost and seeking voices riding upon it—thirsty sounds, oh so very thirsty those voices seemed to Korel, laced with a forlorn loneliness. And as the voices rose and fell, he slept he fitful sleep, wrapped in a blanket of darkness, propped against a boulder, consciousness coming and going with the undulations of ethereal tides. He spent most of the twilight hours this way until the darkest hours of deep night, not long before the coming of the dawn.
Sitting within the boulder field, Korel looked up toward the shining stars above, some of which whispered of great deeds done when the world was newly young—when Mirilyn, the first ruling queen of those who gave form to the earth, removed her crown of precious gems and placed it in the heavens to give light to all who are lost, to make the dark places less dark until the coming of the Light. As he drifted on the edge of sleep, Korel thought of his first day at the palace.
In Westoreth, he and his family had lived simple lives as weavers and cloth merchants. They had been poor when compared to the standards of wealth, though they earned enough for their needs. Yet they were wealthy in talents and basic goodness and touched with uncommon beauty, harmony, and a quiet nobility that seemed to arrive from a great distance, the grace of ancient kings come down through forgotten ages to finally settle upon the family. With this forgotten lineage also came a passionate talent for the arts of war, a character gifted through the generations and a possession of the family despite its now humble profession. But as with all families, despite their skills and gifts, the Norellens experienced unrest, even as ancient kings with ancient curses, foibles, and enemies.
Korel was the youngest of six and loved the work of weaving, spending most of his time
As the sun began to set, long shadows stretched across the caked expanse, the hunger of the flat, wide valley yearning toward him, as if he were a last morsel of food granted the condemned, dying plain upon the eve of its execution. As he did the previous night, Korel sought high ground on which to camp, climbing a short ridge to the south covered with boulders and shallow crevasses, devoid of any plants or life of any kind. Indeed, all the land round about was completely barren, without even a solitary blade of grass or tangle of scrub to break the gray-brown sameness that stretched in every direction to the horizon.
Korel made camp within the boulder field, a location that would assure maximum concealment but also the maximum disadvantage, as the blocky, cluttered terrain would impede him should a quick escape be necessary. Despite this, it seemed the best spot to rest as he laid his burden of meat upon the ground and dug a small pit in which to place it, a shallow grave to hide the scent from any who might seek this place during the night. He covered the leaf-wrapped meat in the earth and looped the cords binding it over a rocky projection in easy reach should a quick evacuation be necessary.
The night closed in rapidly as the wind began singing, a chorus of lost and seeking voices riding upon it—thirsty sounds, oh so very thirsty those voices seemed to Korel, laced with a forlorn loneliness. And as the voices rose and fell, he slept he fitful sleep, wrapped in a blanket of darkness, propped against a boulder, consciousness coming and going with the undulations of ethereal tides. He spent most of the twilight hours this way until the darkest hours of deep night, not long before the coming of the dawn.
Sitting within the boulder field, Korel looked up toward the shining stars above, some of which whispered of great deeds done when the world was newly young—when Mirilyn, the first ruling queen of those who gave form to the earth, removed her crown of precious gems and placed it in the heavens to give light to all who are lost, to make the dark places less dark until the coming of the Light. As he drifted on the edge of sleep, Korel thought of his first day at the palace.
In Westoreth, he and his family had lived simple lives as weavers and cloth merchants. They had been poor when compared to the standards of wealth, though they earned enough for their needs. Yet they were wealthy in talents and basic goodness and touched with uncommon beauty, harmony, and a quiet nobility that seemed to arrive from a great distance, the grace of ancient kings come down through forgotten ages to finally settle upon the family. With this forgotten lineage also came a passionate talent for the arts of war, a character gifted through the generations and a possession of the family despite its now humble profession. But as with all families, despite their skills and gifts, the Norellens experienced unrest, even as ancient kings with ancient curses, foibles, and enemies.
Korel was the youngest of six and loved the work of weaving, spending most of his time
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