Quit and Write: A Writer's Home

Website is launched

noreply@blogger.com (JaredNGarrett) — Wed, 08 Sep 2010 17:29:00 +0000

Hey there. Can you believe I actually got something done early? And a week early no less?

Well I did. Please restrain your sounds of disbelief.

I heard that!

Moving on... my new website is up at http://www.jaredgarrett.com You should stop by. In fact, if you want to keep reading Servant of the King, you will need to go there. I've got articles there, my lovely current novel, and my blog as well.

Um, why are you still here?

No, seriously. I'm not posting here anymore.

Okay, right, sure. Fine, I'm still writing and you're still reading, but let's stop now.

On three.

1

2

3

What the? Why are-- oh.

Yes, we go on three. Not 1, 2, 3, and go. ON three.

1

2

...

It's official.

noreply@blogger.com (JaredNGarrett) — Fri, 03 Sep 2010 16:12:00 +0000

Hello my fine friends. Thanks for being so supportive for such a long time as I have toiled to move my writing career forward.

I have an announcement.

I won't be posting any more chapters of Servant of the King to this blog.

Cue the tears, weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth.

Do you think you could at least clench your jaw for a moment, pretty please?

In any case, that doesn't mean you won't be able to read this book online. I've decided that my writing career has progressed far enough that I really need to launch my own website. I am currently exploring options for my website and plan to have it launched in the middle of September.

I already own the domain and I even have a rough site put together. I need to sit down with my brother-in-law, who helped me get the initial thing going, and figure out how to do the thing and get it to where I need it.

The new website should have several bells and whistles, which I am very excited about! You will be able to see active links to my best articles. You will also be able to peruse a creative writing section where you can read some of the other projects I've been fiddling with. There will also, of course, be a section where you can read Servant of the King.

But now I need your input. I have been considering making the Servant of the King section available to members only, in order to protect my book a little better. I've also considered keeping the first 25 chapters or so available to the public, but allowing only members to read beyond that. What do you think? Should Servant of the King be available in its entirety to the public? Should only the first half be available to the general public?

Or should I put it all in a members-only place?

If you have thoughts, you can respond to the poll on the right of this blog or you can add your comment to this post. I would love your input.

For now, in about two weeks we should be up and running at http://www.jaredgarrett.com, so join me there soon!

Servant of the King Chapter 27

noreply@blogger.com (JaredNGarrett) — Fri, 20 Aug 2010 05:02:00 +0000

Chapter 27

Simra broke the kiss, pulling back with a deep breath. Her eyes lingered on his for a moment, then dropped. "That… I don't know…"

Thoughts roiled in Lakhoni's head. Her name kept flashing through his mind, as if it were an anchor his brain was trying to grasp hold of. I can't leave her. But he had to get to Alronna. She had to still be alive. Even as he wanted to kiss Simra again, he knew he had to fight the urge. He was going to have to leave her—he didn't want to make it harder.

"I know you have to go," Simra said, her face in shadow.

"I…" Lakhoni didn't think he had the courage to say the words himself. How could he do this to her? Suddenly ashamed of himself, he looked to the ground. The sounds of activity outside returned as he searched for what to say. "I'm sorry." He knew it wasn't enough.

"No," Simra said. "I'm sorry. I should not have..."

Silence fell again. Lakhoni's thoughts raced. He couldn't lose focus; he had to get out of the village before Mibli did something serious. The longer he stayed, the harder it would be to go. But now there was Simra.

He shifted backward, his eyes flicking all over the hut, nervous about looking at Simra's face. Now there was Simra. His family and village murdered. Alronna taken. Months with the Separated. The terrible winter. And because of it all, there was Simra. Why?

Why would the Great Spirit set him on a path of justice and grief only to have that path end with… this? With Simra. But it can't be over. I have to find Alronna. And I have to get them… show them that they can't get away with murder.

He had to leave her.

Lakhoni leaned forward, tight energy building in his chest. He took Simra's hand.

But he would come back. He would survive and return to her.

"Simra," he said, his voice soft.

The shadows in the hut had grown quickly as night fell. As he waited for her to look up at him, he noticed gold and orange flickering on the walls of the hut. The cook fire had been built up; its light was squeezing through the cracks around the door.

The door. The guard.

"You've been in here a while," Lakhoni said.

She nodded. She raised her right hand, the one he wasn't gripping, to her face and scrubbed.

He hadn't seen the tears falling. A tight ache squeezed his throat, anguish filling his soul. What had he done? Impulsively, he rocked forward and knelt next to her, wrapping his arms around her. "I don't know what to say… or feel. I…" he searched for the words. "I know…" he cleared his throat, trying to push the tightness away. "I have to go, and I know I…"

He pulled her close; she seemed to resist for a moment, but gave in and leaned on his chest.

He could say no more.

"It's my fault too." Her voice was muffled, but he understood her words.

"I don't want to hurt you," he said.

She shook her head against him. "It doesn't matter. You have to go tonight."

Surprised, he dropped his arms and moved to a crouch. "Why?"

"Because you can't stay. Mibli wants his control and after their fight and what he said, my father can't oppose him. You challenge Mibli's control because you're still here—and my father has kept you here." Simra looked up now, eyes and face dry.

"I was going to leave tonight anyway," Lakhoni said, reaching under his blanket and pulling out his bag.

"Good. I don't know what Mibli would do to you, but he might just bind you and send you to the brick fields to rid himself of you."

"Brick fields?"

She shook her head and stood. "It doesn’t matter. We've been alone in here long enough to raise all kinds of suspicion. I'm surprised nobody has come to question you more."

"What are the brick fields?" He saw an image of wide swaths of pasture that were filled with oven-baked clay tiles instead of green grass.

"Slave labor, basically," Simra said. "I have to go. Finish your dinner."

He stood quickly and grabbed her wrist, a sudden need that he couldn't deny overtaking him. He pulled her close and kissed her again. This is wrong. But it felt right.

She pushed away after a moment. "There's no time. Finish getting ready. Listen for the cry of a nightwing in a few hours."

Confused, he asked, "What are you going to do?"

"I'll get the guard away from the door. When you hear the nightwing, go out and turn right and go behind the hut. Find two trees that are twisted into one about a hundred paces north of the village. I will meet you there." She turned, and with the soft whisper of her dress against the stones of the doorway, she was gone.

Lakhoni stood still for a moment, a thick, confused fear beginning to well up in him. "What's a nightwing?" he asked in a quiet voice. He turned to his bag and hefted it, then opened it to see how much space he had left. He considered rolling the blanket up tightly and stuffing it in the bag too.

No, he wouldn't steal from the village.

She will meet me there? Why would Simra meet him at the trees? Was she gathering supplies for his journey? Or was she planning to go with him?

The fear he had felt earlier grew suddenly into a cloying, stifling sensation. She couldn’t come. He couldn't take her to Lemalihah, where he planned to kill the king. She would be killed or worse. He would not put her in danger. She had to stay behind.

But maybe she would just have supplies for him.

His center completely destroyed by the events of his evening, he turned back to his now-cold dinner and sat, trying to control the worry that roiled in him.

A nightwing. He had to listen for one. But what was it? He thought about the birds he had been familiar with. There were the colorful ones that sometimes sounded like a bunch of old women chattering. He mentally listed the birds he knew by name.

It must be a bird of the evening or night. Maybe it had dark feathers.

An image of a sleek, strong bird with a wingspan as wide as he was tall came to him. Maybe she meant the whisperbird. It only came out at night and it could carry off a month-old puppy if it was hungry enough. Its wings were usually dark.

That had to be it.

He stood again, moving to the door and peering through the gap between the door and the wall. The noises he had been hearing for some time now were matched by the activity around the fire. Some hunters must have returned at some point, because Lakhoni saw a haunch of what must have been a wild boar roasting over the fire.

The smell came to him, but he was too worried to be hungry.

He paced in the hut for a few minutes. When would she signal? It would have to be when people were sleeping.

Sleep. He should try to get some sleep before leaving; he would have to travel all night in order to get far enough away from the village.

He lay down and tried to fight worry and fear away. Had he been too long in his journey? Would he be too late for Alronna? What if Simra wanted to go with him? How could he say no? Did he even want to say no?

He had just begun to win his wrestle and fade into a light doze when the sharp snap of the door being slammed open roused him. He sat up fast, grateful he had remembered to hide his bag again.

Mibli stood in the doorway, his entire front half shrouded in darkness while firelight glimmered on his shoulders. "It's time to have some answers, boy."

Lakhoni said nothing.

Mibli advanced a few paces and stopped. He glanced over his shoulder and signaled. Another man entered the hut. It suddenly felt very crowded and Lakhoni felt very small as the two men towered over him. "Light the fire," Mibli said to the other man, "while I have a conversation with this boy."

Lakhoni stood, sick of having to crane his neck to keep his eyes on Mibli's face.

Mibli moved quickly across the hut and pushed him back down, the strength in the small man's arms surprising. "Sit."

Lakhoni had no choice but to obey. He thought furiously, trying to remember the story with the threads of truth and lie that he had told.

The fire came to life behind Mibli. "If you don't answer my questions, and answer the truth, you'll regret it." The man squeezed his hands into fists, his knuckles popping. "I can make you hurt without killing you easily." He produced a stone dagger from a soft sheath at his waist. "I'll know if you're lying. So you better tell the truth and maybe this won't get too bad for you."

Lakhoni felt as if the words were too forced, as if Mibli must have been practicing them for a while. "I already told you the truth," Lakhoni said.

"We'll see," Mibli said, settling down to a low crouch. He flipped the dagger a few times. His gaze wandering lazily over the hut walls and the hides, shelves and hooks that lined the walls, Mibli asked, "Why did you come to our village?"

"I told you," Lakhoni said. "I didn't 'come' to your village. I was trying to go to Lemalihah, but the winter caught me. I found your village. It saved my life."

"And where did you come from?"

"My village is far to the west, but everybody was killed. I have some family in Lemalihah."

"I know why you pretended to not be able to talk. You are a terrible liar." Mibli caught the eye of the other man, who somehow stood next to Lakhoni now, and nodded slightly.

Alarm filled Lakhoni, but before he could dodge, the other man was bearing him down to the bed, trapping his arms.

"But you're going to tell the truth. There's no way a boy your age could just 'find' our village in a snowstorm after coming as far as you say you came." Mibli moved closer. "I think you're from the Living Dead. I think you're here to spy on us and see where our weaknesses are."

"No!" Lakhoni said, wriggling wildly to get free of the man atop him. His hands were trapped under him and no matter how much he bucked with his legs and torso, the large man wouldn't budge. "I was just lucky! It's the truth!"

"I doubt it." Mibli moved fast, the point of the stone dagger jabbing into Lakhoni's nearest shoulder.

Lakhoni gasped in pain, gritting his teeth to keep from crying out. Mibli dug the point of the dagger deeper into his shoulder, as if Mibli were trying to reach bone. Each twist of the weapon sent blinding agony through Lakhoni. Then suddenly the excruciating pain was halved.

Lakhoni tried to find Mibli, unable to move his head. The stone dagger, now dripping with blood, hung right before his eyes. He tried to slow his breathing, his heartbeat and find a place to put the pain. He couldn't; fear at what Mibli might be capable of made it impossible for Lakhoni to concentrate.

"I'll do that for every lie." Mibli smiled the smile of a man who knew he had total control of a situation and enjoyed it. "Understand?"

Lakhoni grunted, "Yes." He had to get out of this fast. He had to get away without allowing Mibli to do too much damage.

"Let's start again. Are you one of the Living Dead?"

I would truly love to hear your thoughts on this book so far. Will you share your impressions and expertise by commenting on this post?

Thanks!

Servant of the King Chapter 26

noreply@blogger.com (JaredNGarrett) — Tue, 17 Aug 2010 08:24:00 +0000

Chapter 26

"We still don't know who this boy is!" Mibli's somewhat high-pitched voice carried throughout the village, seeming to bounce off of huts and back at Lakhoni. The small, powerful man seemed to jitter with frustrated energy.

Lakhoni stood with his back to the fire, facing the group of people and animals that had gathered. The scene felt familiar, although it took him a minute to place it. That first night. A hot back and cold front.

But much had changed. His energy had returned. After his first day in the sun, with Simra stopping by regularly to offer him water and food, his recovery had accelerated. His strength had returned enough for him to help carry wood for the fire and help with other work around the village.

He felt strong enough to run, to hunt. Which had precipitated Mibli's outburst.

"We still cannot trust this boy! He acts like his voice is gone, but maybe that's all it is! An act so he won't be caught in lies!"

Lakhoni mulled that point. It certainly helped that he hadn't had to answer questions. His conversations with Simra were much improved now that he had a method of communication, but he could tell she wanted to ask more about his past. He wanted to keep her friendship, keep her near him talking, so he worried that his not sharing more might push her away. There had even been moments where he wondered why he didn’t just tell everything.

Because they won't let me go if they think I want to kill the king. And if they know I was one of the Separated, they'll probably automatically kill me.

"But what reason do we have to distrust him?" Neas emerged from the crowd, Simra right behind him. "He has told Simra his story. He arrived here near death. Why would he lie?"

Lakhoni noticed that the rest of the villagers seemed content to let Mibli and Neas have it out. He wondered if this was a normal occurrence. And would they support whichever of the two won the argument?

Mibli stepped closer to Neas, anger visible in each quivering muscle. "You seem happy to allow a boy we don't know to just walk in here and live off of our hard work without question. You would let him hunt with us and join our village, our life, without knowing who he is?"

"I know who he is," Neas said. "He is Lakhoni. He is an orphan. And why shouldn't we let him join our lives. We have space, don't we?"

Lakhoni glanced away from the argument, catching Simra as she looked over at him. She offered him a small smile. He knew it was in support of him. He began to wonder if he should have been more open with her so he could deserve her kindness more. A faint feeling of shame washed through him.

He wished he hadn't chosen to work on his bow that morning. Simra had found a new deer gut string for him and he had decided to work outside near the central fire. Mibli had noticed what he was doing and had confronted him. When Mibli demanded to know if Lakhoni meant to hunt and Lakhoni had nodded, Mibli exploded, prompting the current argument. Lakhoni was glad Neas had come to his defense, but he wondered if he should have…

It was too late now.

"You trust too blindly," Mibli said.

"You fear too blindly," Neas countered.

"I fear for the safety of our village! That is my duty."

"And it is my duty to look to the health of our people here. We would be sick indeed if we allowed a dying boy to rot in front of our fire. And we are sick if we don't offer him our hospitality," Neas said.

"That's all fine, but that doesn't mean I should let him carry weapons and sneak around behind me and my hunters as we search for food."

"You make a good point, but what could he say that he has not already written that would convince you that he doesn't lie? That he really is an orphan who needs a new home?"

Neas' words pierced Lakhoni. He knew that at nearly sixteen years old, he was almost old enough to start his own family. He figured that his age had to be fairly clear to the villagers. The idea that Neas meant to provide him a new home had never occurred to him.

"So you want to adopt him?"

"Maybe the village should adopt him," Neas said, his voice quiet. The way the words were said seemed to give them more impact.

"Maybe you just don't think any of the young men of the village are good enough for your precious daughter," Mibli said, "and you want to groom this one to be her husband. First Fathers know you've had her spending a lot of time with him."

Silence followed Mibli's insinuation. Lakhoni saw many of the villagers nodding in agreement. There had to be a history here, something he hadn't detected before.

Mibli took advantage of the moment. "But with all that time closed up in the hut, how do you know he hasn't already tarnished your precious jewel?"

A current of shock at the accusation shot through the crowd. Lakhoni actually saw the red boil up into Neas' face. He glanced quickly, uncomfortably, at Simra. Her eyes glinted dangerously and she looked like she was about to attack Mibli.

"You can't say that about me!" Simra's voice rang out.

"Stay out of this. You have no place here," Mibli spat.

"You," Neas sputtered, "you… go too far!"

"You go too far welcoming what might be a wolf into our village!"

Neas stepped closer to Mibli, who took a small step backward. Simra looked like she wanted to explode.

This was getting bad. Whatever had happened before, it seemed like he was causing it to get worse. He had to stop it. It would probably mean he would be thrown out, and would surely mean… It didn't matter.

"Please," Lakhoni said. "I don't want to cause trouble."

His voice, rough and raw, seemed to cut through the tension between Neas and Mibli.

"He talks!" Mibli crowed, spinning to glare at Lakhoni. "You see! He was lying all along."

"No!" Lakhoni said. "Just for the last week." He stared at the frozen ground, not wanting to see Simra's face. He knew she would be hurt at his deception. He just hadn't wanted to answer all of the questions he knew would be asked. Writing his words seemed to slow things down. It was easier to keep things at arm's length that way.

"Why should we believe that? No, this boy needs to be confined until we can make sure we know exactly who he is and why he is here," Mibli said.

That sounded reasonable to Lakhoni. In truth, he agreed much more with Mibli than with Neas. He was happy Neas had won the initial argument, but if it were up to Lakhoni, he wasn't sure if he would have been so compassionate.

When there was no response from Neas, Lakhoni looked up. Simra and her father stood in close conversation, their words too muffled for him to hear. Neas had bent forward so his shaggy head was closer to Simra's. She shook her head firmly several times as they spoke.

"So since nobody seems to object, boy, confined you will be," Mibli said.

Lakhoni met Mibli's angry stare. "My name is Lakhoni."

"You're right," Neas said. He stood with his arm on his daughter's shoulders. "Now that Lakhoni can talk, we need to make sure he means us no harm. He can be kept in the sick hut for now, with a guard on the door."

"He should be bound," Mibli said.

"There are no weapons in there," Neas said. "Your warriors can surely stop a young, ill, unarmed boy, can't they?"

Mibli glared. "Fine." He gestured to a nearby man. "Take him."

As Lakhoni was led through the crowd, he heard Neas' voice behind him. "Mibli, you will withdraw the accusation you made against my daughter."

"Why should I?"

"Because you know it isn't true. I won't let it stand."

Lakhoni didn't hear Mibli's response, if there was any. He glanced over his shoulder, wanting to see what might happen. Simra's deep brown eyes, in the sun they were the color of red river clay, met his gaze. As he looked quickly away, he was sure he had seen pain in those eyes. He wanted to go back and try to explain. He wanted to help her understand that he didn't want to hurt her, that he wanted to protect her. He knew that if anyone knew the fullness of his intentions in Lemalihah, they would never let him go. And if they somehow did let him go and anyone near the king found out about any help he had received, Simra's village would be in danger.

But there wasn't time. He would be confined while a decision was made. No, they're going to question me. Lakhoni couldn't let that happen. He had to get away.

The man leading him grabbed Lakhoni's bow, wrenching it from his hand. He then pushed Lakhoni, hard, through the doorway and shut the door behind him. Lakhoni spun to the side and listened, watching for shadows and movement through the cracks between door and wall. He knew locking the door was not an option. The man shuffled to the right of the door. Lakhoni sensed him lean against the outer wall of the building.

He would wait. The man's attention would lag. Maybe he could wait until darkness was falling. Lakhoni turned to face the hut, searching the shadows. He would need food. A weapon would be helpful. First though, he would need a bag.

And he would need to listen for movement outside so that anyone coming in would not see him making preparations to leave.

Pleased that his body no longer protested much whenever he moved, Lakhoni searched the hut. It wasn't long before he found a pile of familiar items on a small wood table. Everything he had brought to the hut, minus his bow. His bag, a pair of breeches, his chewed cloak. Even the dagger he had carried from the cavern of the Separated. Neas had obviously forgotten about leaving Lakhoni's things in the hut.

Maybe he hadn't forgotten. Lakhoni wondered for a moment if Neas had deliberately made it seem like he would be helpless. Does he want me to escape? Does he think it will go badly for me if I stay? He held the bag open and shoved the dagger and breeches in. It didn't matter; he would leave if he had to. He scoured the hut for food, finding a small cache of dried, smoked deer meat in a heavy clay box that sat under a wood shelf containing bandaging supplies. He grabbed some of the bandages too; it never hurt to be prepared.

He would need more food. If he could get his bow back, he would be able to hunt, especially since winter seemed to be coming to a close. He sat on his bed, waiting for dark to fall and adding up the days. He had left the Separated in the dead of winter and had traveled for nearly two weeks. He had been in Simra's village for another three, or was it four?, weeks.

Spring had to be close.

It should be safe for him to travel, even if he left tonight.

He would wait until after someone brought him dinner. He hoped it would be Simra, but stopped himself. It would be easier if it weren't Simra. She would be hurt. She would ask questions.

He didn't want to see the pain in her eyes again.

As he sat waiting for nightfall and the moment for his escape, he practiced the breathing and centering techniques Gimno had taught him. He eased his weight backward slightly, straightening and firming his spine and crossing his legs in front of him. He rested his wrists atop his knees, breathing slowly through his slightly open mouth.

Finding a dark whorl on the pale wood door, Lakhoni focused on it, willing himself to breathe regularly and smoothly. He considered lighting a fire to ward off the chill of the waning day, but dismissed the idea. Better if the light source was outside if anyone came in—they would make an easier target and their eyes would take a moment to adjust. That moment could be the only chance he had.

He shook the thoughts away. Breathe. Focus.

It took him longer than he expected to find his center. Images of Simra's face, reminders of the shame he felt at hiding that he could speak, Neas' anger—they all crowded into his mind. Simra's kindness, and that of her father, reminded him so much of his first impressions of Gimno's wife, Vena. It reminded him of home, too.

He reflected on the possibility that he might actually stay in the village. Maybe Mibli would come around. Maybe he could have a new home. He could leave his journey behind. What were the chances of his finding Alronna, much less rescuing her, anyway?

He forced the thoughts away. It didn't matter. His course was set.

Breathe. Focus. What seemed like hours passed as he struggled against the turmoil in his mind. As he finally pushed all thought away, the whorl on the door seemed to become at once less defined but larger. He closed his eyes, opening all of his other senses to the world around him. Center. Breathe. Gimno had taught him that in this state, he could extend his awareness somewhat, almost see what was happening in the world around him, despite his eyes being closed.

Smell came first. Someone was cooking deer and maybe some other animal over the fire outside. Flatbread too. Then hearing and more. Children played with dogs nearby. Somebody walked close enough to the hut he sat in that he felt the tremor of the earth under their feet.

Now Lakhoni, still in his deepened state of consciousness, willed his muscles to relax, but remain ready to move at a moment's notice. He felt fully connected with the earth beneath him, as if he could almost feel its pulse.

Somebody was walking toward the door of the hut. Lakhoni quickly stuffed his bag of things under his blanket, sliding backward and to the side so that his back leaned on the stone wall. He glanced down, assuring himself that the bag was well hidden.

Voices came through the door, then the door opened outward. Simra stepped through the darkening shadows of the day, golden flame reflecting on her skin that was the color of fired clay. She held a plate of food in one hand, the other propping the door open. She stood that way for a long moment, her face seeming almost flat—as if she was forcing all expression away.

Lakhoni forced the guilt away, even as his heart leapt at the sight of her.

"They said I could bring you some food." Simra crossed the hut in a few strides. She lowered the plate to Lakhoni.

He took it with a flat smile.

She turned back toward the door.

"Simra," he said without meaning to.

She stopped, but didn't turn back.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you."

A few seconds passed. She took another step, then stopped. "Typical."

He could see the disappointment in the set of her shoulders. "What?"

"It's typical, that's all." Now she turned so he could see her face. "The first words you say to me are an apology. Because you lied. It shouldn't be a surprise."

He heard the anger in her voice, but there was more than that in her face. Pain in her eyes and mouth.

"Simra, I-…" he had no idea what to say. The weight of the plate in his hands seemed to match the heaviness in his chest. "I don't…I didn't want to hurt you."

"Nobody ever does." Moisture glinted at the edges of her eyes, but she appeared to will it away. "You're no different."

Something in the way she said that pierced him. He suddenly wanted to be different, although he didn't understand what she meant.

"Will you at least tell me why you hid that you got your voice back?"

Lakhoni's throat felt tight. He wanted to make he feel better, wanted to figure out what to say or do that would work. But he had no idea what that might be. Finally, he met her gaze and nodded. "It's because I was worried I would have to talk more about what happened to my family. And why I'm here."

Simra tilted her head to the side for a moment, her eyes searching his face. "Good start," she said. She waited.

It took him a moment, but he understood. "And… I just don't want to put anybody in danger. What happened to my family and village… it could happen here too."

"Is that really why?"

He considered for a moment. "Mostly."

Her eyes widened in surprise. He was sure she was going to spin around and leave, furious with the way he kept things to himself.

Instead she lowered herself to her knees. "Another good answer. Can you tell me the rest?"

He stared at her for a long moment, trying to figure her out. I guess honesty. Honesty even if I don’t tell her everything. And I tell her when I'm not telling her everything.

"Eat before it gets cold," Simra said.

He glanced down and automatically took a bite of the chunk of meat skewered on a two-pronged, smooth utensil. Chewing quickly, he spoke between breaths. "There is more, but I don't feel right talking about it. I think… I think it might put you and your village in danger."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"And you didn't tell me you could talk because…"

Hadn't he already explained this part? "Because talking is faster than writing. When I write, I can control our conversations better."

"Fathers curse you," she swore. She looked down at her hands, which were folded in her lap. "When you get honest, you really do it right."

He decided that was a good thing. He leaned forward, scooting out from the wall a little. "And, the truth is also that… I still don't like to remember what happened."

Her head bobbed as she considered his words. She glanced over her shoulder at the door, then leaned forward on her hands and moved closer, dropping her volume. "But maybe I can help you with whatever you're trying to do. Find your sister, I mean." Their eyes locked. Moments passed, measured in heartbeats. "I'd like to help."

He could see that she meant it. He wanted to trust her. He took a moment to watch the door, then moved closer to her, not wanting anybody outside to hear. "I don't think that would be a good idea. I think the people who… who took her were Lemal's warriors. I think she's in Lemalihah."

"King Lemal?" Simra sat taller, tension in her body. "You think your sister is a captive of the king?" At least she'd had the presence of mind to whisper, although it had been a harsh whisper.

"I think so."

"Why?"

"I told you. Somebody I talked to said they saw the raiders."

"Who did you talk to?"

Lakhoni stopped to think. "Someone in another village."

Simra's mouth went tight.

"Okay, look. Somebody I can't really talk about, but I know he was right." Lakhoni grabbed another bite of food. He still meant to get away this night; he would need plenty of food in him.

"And you think you can rescue her from the king's castle compound?" Simra asked.

"I don't know. But she's my sister."

The simple statement seemed to put an end to Simra's questions. The tension slid out of her body. As she moved from her kneeling position to sit on the ground, Lakhoni realized that in their desire to keep their conversation quiet, they had moved quite close to each other. Suddenly he felt awkward.

He jabbed at the next piece of meat to hide the sudden feeling.

"It's already dead," Simra said.

"Are you sure?" he said, "I thought it moved."

"Positive."

The air between them grew thicker after she spoke. He wanted to look up from his plate, knew it would be strange if just kept staring at his food. It felt like he was pushing through mud, but he raised his head and found her eyes.

"Lakhoni," she said. "I'm sorry about your family. I wish I could help you find your sister."

"Alronna," he said. He couldn't tear his eyes from hers. His heart thundered in his chest. He had to push it away. He couldn't let Simra, or how he felt, slow him down. He had to move.

"What?"

"Her name is Alronna."

"Oh."

He tried to find his center, control his breathing, but he was talking before he could stop himself. "Simra, I… you… I mean, you're the most…"

"Please don't say it," Simra said.

"Don't say what?"

"Just… boys tell me I'm the most beautiful girl they've ever seen. But all they want is a woman. To keep the hut, to scrape their hides. To…" she looked down.

In that moment, Lakhoni understood her self-doubt and her directness. He finally saw why she seemed uncomfortable so often and the conflict he had seen in her made sense. He shook his head. No, she couldn't be allowed to think that he… no. He was different. He set his plate aside. It took all of his courage and him holding his breath, but he reached out with his right hand and took her left hand. "I was going to say that you're the most unusual, giving person I've ever known." He didn't know where the words came from, but they felt perfect.

In a heartbeat, her reddish-brown eyes filled his vision.

"You are beautiful, but not just on the outside." He swallowed and sucked in a breath, holding it. "You could never just be someone's woman. You would be a companion. A help-meet."

Simra blinked. She squeezed his hand and stared hard at him. The moment lengthened. "Lakhoni," she said. "You…" Suddenly she broke into a wide smile. It set his heart to renewed thundering. "You have a way with words."

He could think of nothing to say. If she hadn't been squeezing his hand so hard, he would have been trembling with the emotion that her smile and touch awoke in him. I love you, he thought, knowing he couldn't speak the words. Knowing he shouldn't be holding both of her hands now. He knew, as her eyes grew bigger and a force both outside and inside of him pushed him closer to her, that he had to get away from her village. Rescue his sister. He had to get away from her.

His heart seemed to stop as her eyes filled his vision completely.

The world dissolved.

Maybe Mondays...

noreply@blogger.com (JaredNGarrett) — Tue, 17 Aug 2010 04:21:00 +0000

Welcome to this post! In it you will find all sorts of fascinating tidbits, because I want to fascinate and delight you, my beloved reader.

You might have been expecting a new chapter of Servant of the King, and your expectation is well-founded. It is indeed on Mondays that a new chapter is posted. In fact, a new chapter is also posted on Thursdays. Thus, you can expect a new chapter posted later tonight.

So to what, you are probably asking, do you owe this bonus post?

To the desire to discuss writing in my life right now. If you are a writer, like me, who desires to be a successful and publishing author, your experience might be very similar to mine. So let's commiserate, shall we?

I'd like to pose some questions and have you answer them in the comments of this post. For my part, I'll answer them here in this post.

Q1. Why do I desire to be a writer, work as a writer, or in other words, be a teller of stories? Not lies, because they contain truth; but stories.

A1. That's a freaking good question. There is no doubt that if I didn't have this burning desire in me, I would be a far more settled fellow.

In any case, I think my love of stories began with The Poky Little Puppy. I remember that was the book I loved best when I was six. I don't remember anyone ever reading it to me; but I read it plenty. I also read The Little Engine that Could. Even at that young age, I had an inkling of the solid quality of the first book and the inherent problem with the second. To this day, The Little Engine that Could bugs me and The Poky Little Puppy makes me grin.

Did I digress? Yes, I think so.

I love stories. Fantasy series like The Forgotten Realms, particularly R.A. Salvatore's and Ed Greenwood's work, really got me excited. I loved what I read of Dragonlance. There was also Walter Farley's The Black Stallion. I loved that book and devoured every book in the series. They changed my life in that I learned to love horses and I actually, I kid you not, learned to ride horses by reading them. The first time I got on a horse it felt like home.

I get a little emotional when I see how much my oldest boy loves that book. I see him identifying with Alec and... man... the power of story!

Stories have moved me for as long as I can remember. I love the worlds, the people, the magic, the action, the love stories, the fantastic elements. I think there was a stretch of nearly ten years in which I didn't read these books; those were my dark ages.

So I love these stories to the point that I decided I wanted to tell them. I wanted to move people. I still do. I want to transport people into the life and world of characters and take them along on an exciting, breathless, emotional ride. I want to shock, hurt and change my readers. I love it.

Q2. Is there a spot of vanity in my motivation to be a successful writer?

A2. Why yes, funny you should ask. I have seen the vanity in myself and recognize the motivation it gives me. I want attention, I want validation, I even want some near-worship.

But when I feel like the goal of success and validation is driving my writing, I have seen that my writing becomes a chore, not a joy. So I push back when it comes a'calling and I immerse myself in story again.

I won't deny I like to get a compliment now and again. One of my fondest dreams is to meet someone like Bob Salvatore or Stephen King and hear them tell me I'm a good writer. Actually, Dave Farland said that once, so that was mighty cool.

Q3. What about writing means the most to you?
A3. There are those moments when I've pushed through malaise, laziness, doubt and distraction and have gotten into the story. Those moments when I feel like I've been in my characters' heads and hearts and have told a story that means something because it speaks of and to the soul.

Recently though, I've had a new experience that has meant even more to me as a writer, particularly regarding my journey into the craft. As I work on Servant of the King, I have found myself hitting some points that I was not expecting. I have found the character and the world he inhabits simply lead him into these moments that are beyond what I had planned. So when I've hit some of these moments where I really don't know what happens next, I take a few minutes to write about the characters involved. I write about their motivations, their goals, their individual world, and their relationships. As I do that, man, it's exhilarating! What happens next become clear because it is simply what that person would do in that situation.

And as I follow these threads, things grow more complicated and the world becomes richer and the people become more real.

So these moments where I feel like I'm really delving into the craft-- they're tops right now. They're intrinsic validation.

Have you had any of these moments where you've felt yourself learning and mastering the craft?

Q4. Is writing a solitary activity?
A4. Yes. And no.
I do my best work when I am writing in a quiet place, with my headphones playing scene-appropriate music and also keeping any ambient noise away. I must be alone and completely undistracted when I want to really get work done.

Also, writing is solitary in that the people around me, and maybe other writers too, don't truly understand what it means to try to craft an excellent story-- especially a long one. It takes lots of time and work and is completely absorbing. It's mentally and emotionally taxing. I sometimes want to share the emotions I go through when I write, and I do that, but it's clear that those I talk to don't get it really.

But writing is also not solitary at all. I mean, I'm writing for an audience after all. And I am surrounded by people who love and support me. (And it's bloody about time I recognized that.) They want the best for me and many of them are actually reading my stuff!!! I apologize for the overuse of exclamation points.

Please forgive.

And there is no doubt that a good writing group that is regularly attended is beyond value.

Q5. What about your faith? Does it play a part in your work?
A5. Very much, especially today. For a lot of years, I tried to segment my life. I kept things in their world and didn't let things spill over. For example, I want to be successful as a writer-- meaning I want to be publishing regularly and have people love my work, because I will be writing good stuff. But I never allowed my Father in Heaven into that dream.

I've changed that tune significantly. When I sit down to write, I actually watch the video I have embedded on the right of this blog first. Every time. Then I say a prayer. Every time.

My writing has been much improved of late. I know it's because I am praying over my flocks and fields and that I have recognized that my dream is good-- and my writing is a good work. God wants me to be happy. This is one of the major sources of happiness for me.

As a final note, my life is not on hold until I start reaching goals of success as a writer. Not even close. I have a phenomenal family (Oh don't practice your alliteration on me...) and a good job. I love life. I love most every moment of life. I and my family are blessed. Writing is a part of life and I expect it to become a larger part of our life as I keep moving toward goals.

And that's it for now. What about your thoughts, feelings and experience regarding these questions? I find that I stay firm in my goals and progress as I see better that I am not alone. Care to share?

Servant of the King Chapter 25

noreply@blogger.com (JaredNGarrett) — Thu, 12 Aug 2010 13:49:00 +0000

Chapter 25

Lakhoni was waiting for her when she came in the morning. After she had left the night previous, he had sat with his back against the pelt for a long time. Not long before falling asleep, an idea had come to him.

So he had woken early, excited to see his plan through. While waiting for Simra, he had been tempted to push himself to his feet and go find her, but he wanted to maintain the surprise.

She walked in the door, a bigger dish in her hand this time, her face in shadow due to the strong light behind her. It was only a few steps from the door to his sleeping mat. As she knelt, she looked at his face. She noticed the wall next to him.

"Lakhoni," she read.

Eyes widening in surprise, then stretching in delight, she turned to him. "Your name is Lakhoni?"

He nodded, a fierce, too-strong joy filling him at seeing her reaction.

She smiled at him for a moment and shook her head. "I can't believe I didn't think of that."

Lakhoni grinned and held up the piece of charcoal that he had used.

Simra closed her hand around his hand that held the charcoal. "Your name is Lakhoni."

Brown eyes held his for a long, heart-pounding moment.

"Lucky I can read," she said. She cocked her head to the side, a musing expression on her face. "Lucky you can write." She gently released his hand, sitting back on her legs.

He made a show of looking around, waving his hand in the air.

"You need something you can write on."

Lakhoni nodded.

She rose to her feet and ambled around the hut. "Maybe a flat stone, or even a tough piece of leather. It will have to be a light color." She paused and addressed him. "You'll have to tell me how you learned to write. Father taught me because he is the healer and he expects me to help him, but who are you that you've been taught?" Turning back to her search, she continued her monologue.

Lakhoni set his charcoal down and reached for the deep plate she had brought in, the smells of eggs and fried vegetables too much for him to resist. Real food, he thought, mouth watering.

"I hope you can write fast, Lakhoni. I have lots of questions for you. Lakhoni, that sounds like a name from the west—one of those warrior names. Is that where you're from?"

He looked up, his mouth full. He had decided the story he would tell her would be as close to the truth as possible. He nodded.

"Hey! You're supposed to wait for me to help you." She made to move toward him.

He shook his head and used large movements to show her he was well enough to feed himself.

A strange expression flitted across Simra's face. She looked sad for a second there. Isn't she glad I'm getting better?

As he gobbled the food, he watched Simra wander around the hut. Eventually she stepped out the door. He guessed she was still looking for something for him to write upon. He scraped the last of the eggs and vegetables off the clay plate, setting down the pronged stick Simra had brought with the food and using his fingers to clean the plate off.

A thought occurred to him. He looked closer at the plate. He turned it upside down.

He was writing as small as he could with his awkward-shaped piece of charcoal when Simra came back in, holding another, far cleaner plate.

"Lakhoni, I think this plate will be perfect." The last word was suddenly quiet. "Oh." She walked quickly over to him. "But I am sure I thought of it first."

He flashed a smile at her, shook his head and pointed at his chest, and went back to his writing. The charcoal smudged easily if he wasn't careful, but it showed up very well on the pale brown plate. He heard Simra settle to a seated position next to him. I wonder if she would visit me if her father hadn't made her take care of me. The thought seemed to come from nowhere. He pushed it away.

A moment later, he held the plate out to Simra. Before she took it, he pointed at the other side of it, reminding her it was dirty.

"Yes, I know it had your breakfast on it." Simra took the plate. "And no, I'd rather not touch it, thanks."

He rolled his eyes dramatically and pointed at the plate she held.

"Fine, relax." She made a show of peering at the plate, cocking her head to one side and forcing a confused expression. "Wait, are you sure you know how to write?"

He wished he could shout at her to get on with it, noted the irony of his wish, and flicked her arm gently with one finger. The crafty smile she offered him from under heavy-lidded eyes set his heart pounding.

"Okay." She cleared her throat and began to read aloud. "I'm from a village far to the west. Everyone was killed in a raid." She gasped softly and looked up at Lakhoni. "Really? I'm so sorry."

He nodded, hoping he hid well the sudden pain he felt in his throat.

After a moment of seeming to search his face, she turned back to the note he had scrawled. While she read, he grabbed the clean plate she had brought back with her and began to write.

"I was hurt bad," she continued aloud. "They thought I was dead. I think my sister might be alive too. I think they took her."

He glanced up quickly as she finished what he had written and held up a hand for a moment. In another minute he was done with the second note.

They traded plates and she continued reading as he scrubbed the first note off and began writing again.. "I tried to follow them, but I am not sure where they went. Someone told me they might be in Lemalihah. I came here to find my sister."

In his haste to keep up with Simra, his writing had become larger, giving her less to read on each plate. They traded again.

"I thought someone was trying to capture me, so I traveled in winter to get away from them. I can't say who they were, or if they followed."

Another trade.

"I ran out of food. I tried to kill a deer and broke my string. I ate part of my cloak." At this, Simra burst into laughter. Lakhoni laughed too, although the noises he made sounded like a dying dog to his ears. "I ate winter moss too."

She took the next plate. "I kept going because if I stopped, I thought I would die. I want to find my sister. I found your village."

When Simra finished reading the last note, she straightened and gave Lakhoni a stern glare. "That was somewhat abbreviated, wasn't it? Are you sure you can't give any more details?"

Lakhoni raised his eyebrows and hands in question. Like what? he thought. He was proud of the story. There were no outright lies.

"Like why your sister would be in Lemalihah and who took her and killed everyone in your village. Or maybe about who you thought was trying to follow you. Or maybe about how you survived on pieces of cloak and winter moss while you traveled through the heart of winter?"

Lakhoni picked up a plate, using his hand to clean off the previous note. She read while he wrote. "I think the king's warriors did it."

She sat back quickly. "Why would you think that?" she asked.

He wrote more. "Somebody had seen them do something like that before."

"And you think they kidnapped your sister and now you think you can go find her? And what? Do you plan on getting revenge?"

He held up one finger and nodded. Then two fingers and he shook his head.

"Yes to the first question and no to the second one?"

He nodded and wrote one more line. "I just want to find my sister. She's my only family."

Simra regarded him for a long, quiet minute.

Lakhoni hoped she would be satisfied with his story. He didn't want to try to explain the Separated or the murder of the young boy. Every time he tried to understand those people, he ended up just becoming confused. And her question about revenge touched too close to home regarding the justice he still felt he needed to find or administer for the deaths of his family and village.

He tried to think of something more to write that would end the somewhat awkward moment. As he searched Simra's face for a clue to her thoughts, he had the impression that she was trying to decide if she would believe his story.

She nodded.

Tension he had been holding in his shoulders left him. He leaned forward to try to push himself to his feet. He had been sitting and lying down long enough.

"I know there's more you aren't telling me."

He glanced at her face, her brown eyes, but looked away quickly. Pushing himself to his knees, he met her gaze again. He nodded. I can't. For lots of reasons.

"Maybe you'll decide you can trust me," Simra said. She put out a hand to stead Lakhoni as he eased himself to his knees. "Until then, I suppose that story will have to do." She rose with him, clearly ready to either catch him or slow his fall if he couldn't keep his feet.

The room didn't spin, although his legs felt shaky and boneless. He found his breath coming fast and could feel his heart beat in his ears.

"Take it slow," Simra said. "Give it time."

He stepped off the sleeping mat. He felt shaky like an old man, every muscle in his legs and torso protesting. He extended a hand toward a hut wall, but Simra was there. She stepped under his arm and wrapped her left arm around his back.

"I'll help," she said.

He pushed a small smile of thanks onto his face, taking another step. He felt like he had been running for miles!

He stopped and tried to slow his breathing. And this is just walking!

"Just make it outside. You can sit in the sun for a time," Simra said.

Her hand and arm were warm and strong. This was a new experience for Lakhoni. He wished he felt more like himself so that he could savor the experience of her touch on his back. As it was, it was all he could do to stay upright.

After a minute of standing still and taking long breaths, his heartbeat had slowed considerably. He pushed forward, taking one step, then another. Maybe two more paces to the door.

On his next step, his foot bumped against a slight unevenness in the dirt floor of the hut and in a moment of panic he knew he didn't have the strength to keep from falling. He clenched his jaw and stepped back leaning heavily on Simra. Her arm tightened and she grabbed his hand that draped over her shoulder with her right hand.

Her voice was soft in the hut that had been his home for over two weeks.

"It's okay. I won't let you fall. We'll do this together."

Servant of the King Chapter 24

noreply@blogger.com (JaredNGarrett) — Tue, 10 Aug 2010 04:28:00 +0000

Chapter 24

"After today, you should be able to eat something more than soup." Simra met Lakhoni's eyes briefly.

Lakhoni grunted. He could nod now without feeling like he stood upon a dizzying cliff. Most of the aches in his body had slowly, so slowly!, dissipated over the last two weeks. The fever and chills were gone too. But his muscles felt unused. He wondered if he would remember how to walk.

Two weeks of lying on his back, broken only by the few moments it took Simra's father, Neas, to help him move so the sleeping mat and blankets he used could be changed. Two weeks! I think. I might have lost track of a few days.

Simra's dark brown eyes met his again. A faint smile touched the corners of her lips. "Which I'm sure pleases you to no end."

Lakhoni forced a smile, swallowing the first sip of hot soup. Had he ever thought this concoction tasted good?

"How's the voice?"

Fear flooded Lakhoni. He had pushed the worries away, but they returned in force with her question. He felt moisture come to his eyes, but willed it away. He opened his mouth. Come on, now. Just work! He tried to form some words, tried to tell her he was getting better. All that came out was a high-pitched sound of air being forced through his throat underscored by small grunts.

"No." Simra's hand touched his shoulder, staying there for a long moment. "It's okay. Father says it will heal. Don't push it too hard."

They quickly found their rhythm and the clay bowl Simra held emptied. "At least we can get that down quickly, without you interrupting and trying to regale me with tales of your adventures." Lakhoni heard the joke in her tone and saw the sympathy in her eyes. "I really don't care where you came from or how you got so sick. I have no questions whatsoever as to what would make you travel in the middle of winter."

Lakhoni was briefly grateful that he had no voice. He was unsure of how he would explain. At least I have time to create a good story. He smiled at Simra, this time it was less forced. Aside from her and Neas, he had no contact with anyone else. It seemed their village had decided he was a problem for Neas and his daughter, so there was no need to visit the strange boy who had emerged from the wilderness of winter.

"And I really have no reason to ask you about the horrible scars on your head and ribs." As Lakhoni watched, Simra seemed to settle more, her shoulders seeming to relax as she adjusted her position so she was sitting on the dirt floor next to him, her knees tucked slightly under her and to the side. Her tone softened as she continued, her voice wistful, and her eyes unfocused. "You're the only boy in the village who hasn't asked me to marry him."

Lakhoni snorted in laughter. She looked down, seemed to realize he had been listening, and burst out laughing too. After a moment, Lakhoni braced himself on his elbows and levered himself upwards. Simra helped him sit up and move to lean against the furry pelt that hung from the wall near his sleeping mat. When she had helped him before, her strong hands on the bare skin of his chest, he had felt awkward. Now he was used to it. Making sure the blanket didn't slide down too far, he settled backward. He nodded his thanks, looking around the hut that had been his home for two weeks. It seemed this village had extra huts to go around; nobody else seemed to sleep here.

The silence that settled between him and Simra might have been awkward a week ago, but now it felt comfortable. Minutes passed as they sat there, his eyes on the small fire that kept the hut warm.

"You must be bored."

Lakhoni smiled, nodding.

"Even with the stories I tell you, spending all day in here must be awful."

He shrugged.

"Or maybe the stories are the worst part?"

He had known her two weeks, but he felt like he knew her better than he had known anybody, save for Lamorun. Being only able to listen and watch, he felt himself perceiving things about her from the way she held herself or said something. Like now. Simra was joking, but he could tell she sincerely worried that he didn’t enjoy her company. She seemed to doubt herself at the strangest of times.

But she was smart and had strong opinions about things. She seemed totally confident in her opinions of others and the world around her, but when it came to herself, Lakhoni had learned that she was less sure. He didn't understand it. Simra was easily the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. She could cook, hold a conversation; she had talked about going hunting with her father. How could anyone so nearly perfect doubt themselves?

Lakhoni made no move to answer her half joking, half doubting question. He let the moment draw out, then caught her eyes and smiled. He shook his head.

"You're not very nice, you know," Simra said, jokingly disgusted with him.

He shrugged again. He mouthed the word, "More," raising his brows.

She seemed to have no trouble interpreting his meaning. "Okay." Her brow furrowed as she thought. "Myth, legend, truth or a little of both?"

Lakhoni held up two fingers.

"Both. Alright. You've probably heard this before, but since you can't do anything to stop me, I will go ahead and tell it anyway."

Lakhoni snorted. His throat didn't hurt so much anymore beyond a dull ache. He didn't understand why he couldn't talk. He wanted to trust Neas that his voice would return, but when Neas said that he couldn't tell what was wrong, it was hard to believe.

"Hundreds of years ago, maybe thousands," Simra began. "The First Fathers escaped a wicked land across the seas. A land peopled by sorcerers and witches, assassins and thieves."

What if I never speak again? How will I find Alronna and rescue her? How will I get to the king? The cadence of Simra's voice sounded like she had told this story before; almost as if it were a story passed down, word-for-word, among her people.

"The First Fathers were four brothers who married four sisters. They were led by the Great Spirit to gather righteous family and friends to them and journey through the wilderness until they could find a land of safety and prosperity."

Lakhoni knew the story of the First Fathers, but the way Simra told it was different. It was like a painted song, with her voice the brush that created pictures of an ancient family with a divine destiny to fulfill.

"Although they were led by the Great Spirit, the four brothers were not united. The two older, upon whom the rights and privileges of rule had been conferred by their father, did all in their power to complete their journey, while the two younger brothers sought dominion over the people they were leading to an unknown destiny." Simra's eyes had grown unfocused as she spoke.

Lakhoni wondered if she was seeing the small group of ancient people.

"They built ships and sailed across a wild ocean, guided by a tool of ancient wisdom and wonder. This Guide was said to be a gift from the Great Spirit. It was a golden ball, shaped like a human skull, with two holes where eyes would have been. Instead of eyes, there were magnificent, clear gemstones. When the people followed after evil, the gemstones grew cloudy and red. But when the people were good and righteous, the gemstones stayed clear." Simra drew in a slow breath before continuing.

"The First Fathers took the Guide from the treasury of the wicked king of the land they lived in. Using the Guide, they found their way through the wilderness to a great eastern ocean. Without the Guide, they would never have completed their journey; they would have found their deaths on the ocean floor."

As Simra spoke, Lakhoni let his thoughts wander, enjoying her voice. He wished he knew how close Simra's village was to Lemalihah. If he could speak, he would be able to ask. He could also get directions and continue his journey.

"When they arrived at their land of promise and plenty, the two younger brothers deceived many of their friends with empty promises and lies, and led them in attacking the older brothers and their families. The older brothers knew they had to protect their families, so they fled southward. Thus, the land north is that of the Usurpers—the unlawful rulers—and the land south is the land of the true First Fathers."

I have to get better. My voice has to come back. But even if it took him a long time to get his voice back, he could not spend his days on his back anymore. He had to be up and working and practicing the skills that Gimno had taught him.

"The wondrous Guide fell into the hands of the Usurpers, but it is said that their unrighteousness was so great that the Great Spirit withdrew this gift from them. Our people know that when the time comes, the Great Spirit will restore the Guide to us and will lead us to reclaim our rightful, choice land in the north, driving the Usurpers into the sea."

I hadn't realized it, but the Bonaha said something like that when he killed that boy. Maybe the Separated aren't so different from the rest of us.

"But for now, there are two peoples: the Usurpers and the people of Lemal. Each of our kings has taken the name of the oldest brother to show him honor- and so we remain the people of Lemal."

No, the people of Lemal don't practice human sacrifice.

He stopped, realizing what he had just told himself. But is murder any better?

Of course not.

Lakhoni suddenly felt completely alone. His family and village were dead; murdered by a king who was descended from an original ruler who had been righteous. Lemal does not honor the First Fathers with his murders. He felt that he knew why the Separated felt they had been wronged. He also knew that justice had to be served, but he could never truly be one of the Living Dead.

He realized he could not be one of the people of Lemal any longer. He had no people and no place to call home.

The silence in the hut made him realize that Simra had stopped speaking some time ago.

"You suddenly look very sad," she said.

The kindness in her voice and the concern he saw in her face softened something inside of him. He clenched his jaw, clamping down tightly on the flood of emotion that suddenly welled up. He tried not to meet her eyes, but he felt drawn to them.

Simra stared intently at him. Her deep brown eyes, flecked with green, caught his and held them. Lakhoni's heart suddenly began pummeling his chest and he had to fight hard to control a breath that caught in his throat. Warmth touched his right hand. He glanced down. Both of her strong hands encircled his hand. He met her gaze again.

"You will get better. Your voice will come back." Simra's chest rose gently as she took a deep, slow breath.

His mind suddenly blank, his heart still pounding, Lakhoni felt his control ebbing. He clenched her hands, not wanting to tear his eyes from her face.

"And when you get better, I hope you will tell me...," she looked down.

Long moments of silence passed. The heat of her hand was like a heavy cloak, or of hot coals in the middle of a chilly night. He squeezed her hand, wishing she would finish her sentence.

Without looking at him again, Simra set his hand down onto the blanket. She rose gracefully and leaned down to pick up the soup bowl. Before she turned to leave, her voice came quietly.

"Your name. I would like to know your name."

The door closed quietly behind her, a draft causing the small fire to twist and dance.

Servant of the King Chapter 23

noreply@blogger.com (JaredNGarrett) — Fri, 06 Aug 2010 09:25:00 +0000

Chapter 23

The winter stretched far longer than Ree liked. Stones surrounding the large hearths in the kitchen and main rooms in the castle retained plenty of heat, but there were no hearths in the hallways and Ree quickly grew tired of her toes feeling like they were freezing. Her room had a fireplace, so she always had to dash through the hallways, her bear pelt wrapped tightly around her, her breath fogging out behind her.

Snow and frigid temperatures made her feel cooped up. It was far less convenient to go see Titan now. And she still hadn't found out what Shule had been up to that night in the slave barracks.

Meandering around the warmer parts of the room where her father held his feasts, Ree complained aloud, "There is nothing to do!"

She looked up. She hadn't meant to say it so loudly.

Nobody else was in the room. She wandered past the table, lazily grabbing a handful of nuts and dried fruits from a brightly painted clay bowl. "Nothing to do," she chanted between each bite of her snack.

Maybe she should go pester her father in his throne room.

No, that wouldn't work. The middle of the afternoon was when he allowed city supervisors to approach him and seek his wisdom or judgment.

The throne room was out.

Out. She had to get out.

Not relishing the idea of the work it would take to get herself bundled up, Ree told herself to follow her urge through to execution. She could get a serving woman to lace her boots for her; that was the part that she hated the most.

She popped the last few nuts into her mouth and, taking a deep breath, dashed into the hallway and tore down to her room. "Cold!" she called out, her voice echoing off that surrounded her. A small woman came into view just outside of Ree's doorway. Ree recognized the lady as one of the two room attendants. "You, come and help me."

The tiny woman nodded her obedience and followed Ree. In her room, Ree ordered the servant, who it turned out was quite old as evidenced by quite a lot of gray in her otherwise dark hair, to help her gather winter clothing.

Minutes later, Ree wore heavy clothes and sat on her bed, waiting for the slow old woman to finish tying her boots. "Finally!" Ree hurried to the door and left one final order. "Have a fire burning in my fireplace when I get back."

She didn't wait to make sure the servant heard her. As she walked quickly down the hallway, then down the stairs to the kitchen, she wrapped a long strip of fur around her neck and part of her face. The heat of the kitchen felt too heavy as she passed through.

"Where are we going, Mistress Ree?"

Ree recognized the dry tone. Without pausing or turning, she answered, "To see my horse. He's lonely." She pulled open the door to the outside. "Lonely like a poor, friendless cook."

Agmoda chuckled. "It's cold out there, Mistress."

"Really? I thought it was summer." Now Ree turned around and cast a mock glare at the skinny cook.

"It's gotten colder. Snow's light as a feather," Agmoda said.

"I'll be fine." Ree dashed to the long, heavy table that extended nearly the length of the kitchen. She grabbed a carrot and skipped back to the door. "Titan says, 'Thank you.'"

Agmoda's laughter followed her out into the winter day. At least the sun was shining and the wind that often came out of the mountain passes just to the west of the city wasn't blowing. The quick journey between the warm kitchen and the stables was still frigid, making Ree's nose cold and her breath form thick clouds. She had once ventured out on a windy day, perhaps three or four weeks previous. Walking in the winter wind had made her feel like a fish swimming up the nearly frozen waters of a river. Ree lengthened her stride and was reaching for the stable door when it slammed open, nearly hitting her outstretched hand. She jumped in surprise and dodged the large man that burst through the doorway.

Shule didn't look at her; didn't acknowledge her. Ree was briefly tempted to call the warrior on his infraction, but knew it would do no good. He would bow just right, but his eyes would stay hard and he would keep that same smirk on his face. It wasn't worth it when he made it feel like he was mocking you.

Ree stepped quickly behind the stable door, pulling it partway shut. Using the door as camouflage, she turned quickly to try to see where Shule was going. Instead of going through the kitchen door, or circling around to the left of the castle, where the warriors had their barracks, he had angled to the right.

To the slave barracks.

She put the carrot for Titan in a pouch sewn on the inside of her cloak and waited for Shule to turn around the corner of the castle. Then she dashed across the courtyard, reached the wall, and scuttled along it. At the corner Shule had just turned, she stopped and peeked carefully around it. The door to the slave barracks was closing. Crates and wooden barrels, along with tightly wound lengths of rope, bundles of cleaned hides and other sundry items that nobody had found storage places in the castle for yet spilled out the front of the shed that nestled against the far wall of the slave barracks. The barracks had been built right on to the immensely tall wall that surrounded the castle compound. It was a long, law building, very similar to the stables. The castle corner that Ree stood at was near one end of the long building. The storage shed was at the other end.

There were about twenty feet of distance between her corner and the nearest wall of the slave barracks. She would have to cross it quickly, then hug the front wall of the low building the slaves slept in. She was going to have to make it all the way across the front of the barracks to the door without being seen. Ree asked her pounding heart to settle down but didn't wait to see if it would comply.

She darted across the space and put her back on the exterior wall of the slave barracks. The building stretched about half as long as the castle's length. Between the barracks and the castle was a sort of alley that would easily allow two carts to travel abreast through it. Why am I doing this again? And why am I hiding? She stood still for a moment, unable to answer both questions. Then she remembered the night of that awful nightmare. On her walk around the lower platform that circled the castle, she had heard raised voices in the slave barracks. One of those voices had been Shule's. Right. Because Shule is up to something. He's not allowed in there.

For a moment she reflected on the plan she had made that night to try to expose Shule. She shrugged; she had forgotten. Her back pressing the cold exterior wall of the barracks, Ree carefully made her way toward the door that had closed behind the large warrior. No chance I can get in there without him seeing. She thought about what to do, the cold on her face and hands reminding her that if somebody saw her out here like this, they would think it very strange. She had to get out of sight, but also see what Shule was doing. There was a girl's voice that night. Ree imagined she knew what Shule was up to, but wanted to be sure. It sounded like he had been angry with the girl that other night.

The thing was that Shule just wasn't supposed to be in the slaves' barracks.

Ree had long ago noticed that the slaves were all young, pretty women. She had also long ago heard how protective her father was of his 'special servants.' He had explained that the girls were privileged to serve their king in a "particularly special way." As if I was a kid. I know what he does with them.

She eyeballed the barracks' door, then the shed just beyond the door on the far wall of the building.

A plan came to her. Not waiting to second-guess, and really not wanting to be in the cold much longer, Ree walked quickly back the way she came, doing her best to look like she was on a normal outing. In the freezing cold.

Getting to the barracks, she wasted no time. She ran down the aisle between the horse stalls. When she got to Titan's stall, she grabbed a faded woven blanket and a length of leather. "Titan, I need your help," she said. The horse bobbed its head at her quiet tone, its breath coming out in twin clouds of thick fog. She pulled the carrot back out of her pouch and broke it in half. "You get the other half when we're done."

She threw the blanket over Titan's back, arranging it so that it draped over his withers and somewhat up his neck and also reached over his hindquarters. She wrapped the lead around his neck, tying it very loosely. "Come," she said. She quickly led Titan out the wide door meant for the horses, across the paddock area, and toward the slave barracks. Ree wrapped her arms briefly around the tall horse, savoring his warmth and wild, clean smell. "Try to be quiet, okay?"

She led the horse down the alley between the slave barracks and the castle, passing close in front of the door and then in front of the shed. A few feet past the shed, she stopped and let the lead fall to the ground. It didn't even occur to her that Titan might wander off; he was a retired battle horse. He wouldn't stray.

Ree stepped back to the shed, leaning in close to the outer wall of the slave barracks and trying to focus her hearing. She put her hands out, resting them on a bundle of hides and leaned closer.

Nothing.

Maybe if she got closer to the door.

Glancing around, she took quiet steps, her ears questing for voices.

There. Ree glanced at the wall; a small space between two large rocks had been formed. It looked natural and it was perfect.

"… it is." This was Shule's voice.

Silence followed, although Ree thought she might have heard movement or a very soft voice.

"You think I'm stupid. You're wrong," Shule said. "If I were stupid, I wouldn't have known it was you. And you wouldn't still be alive."

Ree glanced around. The cold was doing her a favor; nobody seemed to want to venture out. She was still alone.

"So just tell me where it is and we will be done. I'll even let you go."

Where what is?

"I told you I don't know." This was a girl's voice. "Don't you think I would have told you by now if I knew?"

"Girl, I can be creative with what I do to help you remember. I would leave no mark." A pause. "Look around. Nobody else is here. So let's try to keep things nice and just tell me where the sword is."

The sword? Why's he- Ree stood up straight. Cold chills washed over her, tingling on her skin. He can't possibly mean…

"Why do you think I know? I told you I don't know why my mother was hiding-"

"I know what you said, but it's impossible."

Ree wished Shule hadn't cut off the girl. She had an idea of what the slave girl had been about to say, but she couldn't bring herself to believe it. She had to hear it.

"Your father and mother surely told you. Nobody is so stupid that they wouldn't pass on such knowledge."

"You keep saying that!" A sob broke the last word before the girl finished it. Ree heard a loud intake of air. "Why didn't you just ask them instead of killing them?"

"Stop it. We will not go through this again. The sword. Where is it?"

"I don't know!"

Silence stretched.

Ree wondered if Shule had given up, if he was on his way out of the barracks. She took a step away from the wall, but then heard the large man's angry voice again.

"You do know. I will get it out of you. But first, I think I will let the king have his way with you a few times. That might soften you some."

Ree wished the girl would just tell Shule. Or maybe I don't. If Shule is looking for the Sword, the actual Sword, he can't find it. And why would he be looking for it, and talking to this girl without my father knowing. Another thought occurred to her. Did her father know? Was Shule acting on the king's bidding? If Father had the Sword, and if what's in the box is what I think it is… He could make the people do anything. He could take the land of the Usurpers.

"I know you think I know something, but I really don't. Why don't you just let me go?" Ree thought the girl sounded older than her, maybe by a few years.

"You're no good to me out there," Shule said. "Let's see how you are after a few weeks in the king's company. Besides, where would you go? Your village is dead."

Ree heard the smile in Shule's voice and shuddered, trying to rid herself of the unpleasant feeling his words had given her. This time the silence had a different tone. Ree quickly moved away from the wall, reaching for the shed.

The door creaked open just as she reached the first bundle of hides.

"Princess Ree?"

Breathing as calmly as her pounding heart would allow, Ree turned. "Shule? What are you doing in there?"

The warrior smiled, his stained teeth dull in his overlarge mouth. The man's nose had been broken so many times that it looked more like a smashed piece of fruit than a nose. And his eyes were far too small for such a large head. "I think a better question is what are you doing out here?"

Ree adopted a posture she was familiar with. "Not that it's any of your business, but Titan needed a walk and I saw these hides here." She stroked the top fur; it felt like a wolf's pelt. "Some of them are quite nice."

"If you need another blanket," Shule said, pushing the door closed, "you should just tell a servant."

"Not me, silly," Ree said. "Titan. It's so cold after all." She turned all of her attention to the skins, carefully breathing through her open mouth so Shule wouldn't see her nervousness. As she poked and prodded through the bundle, she felt Shule's gaze on her. Why wouldn't he take the hint and leave?

"I see," he said.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Shule spin on his heel and march away. Did he believe me? What would he do if he thought I had heard? Shule's cruelty was legendary, but Ree thought it absurd to imagine he might hurt the king's daughter. Then why was I so scared?

When he was out of sight, she let out a nervous laugh. Then an urge came over her so quickly that she didn't know she'd acted on it until she was standing in the warm slave barracks, the door swing closed behind her.

She turned to the left and stepped through a doorway. A young woman, long brown hair in messy clumps, eyes rimmed with red, sat on a slightly raised bed, staring at the wall. She jumped when Ree entered the room.

"It's okay," Ree said, extending her hands. "I'm not here to hurt you."

She was definitely a few years older than Ree, at least by two or three years. Her eyes began moving around the room, settling for only a moment at a time.

"I just wanted to see you. I heard Shule. I don't want him to hurt you."

The girl glanced at Ree, then at the door behind her.

"Shule?" The question on the girl's face was clear.

"Yes, his name is Shule," Ree said.

An awkward silence filled the space between the two girls.

"Are you going to let me go?"

Ree thought quickly. "I wish I could. Maybe another day. But it's winter right now." She would get in so much trouble if anyone found her in here. She had to leave.

"Is he going to kill me?"

"I don't think so." Ree tried to catch the girl's darting gaze. "I heard him say something about a sword."

"I told him I don't know! You're working with him, trying to be nice to me! I still don't know!" The girl burst into tears.

Ree dashed across the room, putting her hands on the girl's shaking shoulders. "No, I'm not. I'm really not. I'm sorry."

"Please let me go." Her voice was so soft, so scared, that Ree almost stepped back to let the girl past.

"You'll die." Is it really the Sword of Baalech he's looking for? Why does he think she knows where it is? Ree thought fast again. A stirring of determination touched her throat as she spoke. "But I'll help you get away after winter. They shouldn't do this to you." Ree swallowed. "Or to anyone."

The girl looked up, her gaze finally resting on Ree's face. Tears had left shining trails on the girl's face. "You'll help me?"

"I will."

The girl lowered her face into her hands and scrubbed at her cheeks. She scooted back on her bed, then met Ree's eyes again. "Who are you?"

Ree stepped toward the door. She had to leave, or she was going to be caught. And if someone found Titan outside by himself, it would look strange. She headed for the door, but stopped long enough to answer the girl. "I'm Ree."

The slave girl nodded. "I'm Ronna."

Servant of the King Chapter 22

noreply@blogger.com (JaredNGarrett) — Tue, 03 Aug 2010 03:42:00 +0000

Chapter 22

All he saw was the flame dancing. The orange-gold-red, like living spears, swept up to the sky nearly as high as he was tall. He imagined the heat before he felt it.

Bumping into the stone of a hut, he stumbled into the light cast by the fire. He heard noises, saw movement to both sides, but paid it no heed. The fire, huge and powerful, blazed and drew him in. At its edge, Lakhoni dropped his bow, barely registering its clatter on the frozen ground. He pried his hands off of his cloak and stretched them forward.

Perhaps he had died and this was the world of spirits. Some said the world of spirits was paradise and others said it was for the damned. He didn't care which one he was in, or even if he still lived. The entire front of his body seemed to be melting into the glowing heat of the fire. When he felt his hands could move well enough, he reached up and pulled his cloak off his head, and untied the leather mask from around his face, letting them both drop to the ground. He wished he could remove all of his clothing and bathe in the flame.

As his face thawed for the first time in what felt like years, Lakhoni began to understand the noises around him. Voices raised in question and anger. A baby crying. Deep voices. Dogs barking. He turned to allow his back to get some heat.

"Who are you?" A man, shorter than Lakhoni and with narrow, sloping shoulders stood in front of him. His voice carried anger and suspicion. "Why do you invade our circle?"

Lakhoni opened his mouth to answer. He tried to speak, but his throat felt as if he had swallowed a live coal from the fire behind him. A cough tore through him. He tried to speak again and failed again.

"Speak or be cast out!" The man took a small step forward. He was certainly smaller than Lakhoni, but his sloped shoulders belied the strength that was evident in the man's chest and the rest of his body.

Lakhoni coughed again. "I-" he said, trying to swallow to create space in his throat.

Another man's voice, sharp like a knife, cut through the darkness. "Mibli! This boy is clearly sick!" Scuffling sounds followed.

Lakhoni blinked. He was surrounded by people. Men, women, children, even some dogs were there. And they were all looking at him.

"He must answer!" the slope-shouldered man, who must have been Mibli, said. His protective posture didn't change.

"Let me through, curse your ancestors!" the second voice protested. "He is sick!" A bear pushed two people aside and entered the circle of firelight.

Lakhoni wanted to turn back to the fire to work on his hands again, but realized this might be a rude thing to do.

"And he is probably hungry! Can't you see he's nearly dead?" The bear was actually a hugely thick man with his body covered entirely by a bear pelt.

"This is not your place." Mibli glowered at the enormous man.

"This is exactly my place," the other said. He turned from Mibli and faced Lakhoni.

A shudder slammed through Lakhoni. It was as if the warmth of the fire at his back had reminded him how frigid the temperature around him was.

"Boy. Can you speak?" The bear man's eyes glowed with the gold of the fire.

Lakhoni opened his mouth, but knew nothing would come out. He shook his head. Another spasm of coughing tore out of his chest.

"Get some soup!" The bear man's voice carried through a strange haze that had begun to settle over Lakhoni. Soup was food. Lakhoni wanted to listen, to understand what more the bear man had to say, but the haze grew thicker.

How had he gotten to the ground? The hard thing under him: was that his bow?

He laughed through his nose, or more of a snort, at the contrast between his front and back. His rear-end felt as if it was cooking, while his front was already frozen again.

Lakhoni moved to turn around, but found himself falling to his left.

Darkness consumed him.

He opened his eyes when the first hot splash touched his chin. A shape moved above him, making some kind of noise.

Blinking and drawing in a deep breath, Lakhoni tried hard to focus. He was lying on his back, something soft between him and what was probably a hard dirt floor. A bundle of something that was also soft held his head up somewhat. The roof above him was mostly in shadow, but it looked like it was made of reed and river clay tiles. Like Salno's house back in his village.

"Please, drink this."

Lakhoni turned his attention to the shape—a young woman—that was leaning over him.

"My father says you must have this or you will die," the young woman said. Her skin was the color of scraped and cleaned deer hide, her hair a glistening black that glowed in the light of a small fire behind her. He couldn't see her face very well with the shadows on it, but he felt he could sense some tension.

"I-" the croak that came out sounded like an animal of some kind. He tried again, this time with worse results. His throat felt scraped and raw, like a fresh deer hide.

"Just open your mouth and I'll pour it in," the woman said.

Lakhoni complied, licking his lips. The thin soup, or whatever it was, tasted of meat, some kind of earthy, sharp root, and many vegetables. It was good, but unusual and strangely spicy. Not in a way that hurt though. He opened his mouth for another sip. No, the spiced flavor seemed to be soothing his throat somehow.

"It won't really fill you, but he said it should help you fight off the winter sickness."

He wanted to answer, to say thank you or something, but he didn't want to kindle the coal in his throat again.

"You have to drink it all."

He nodded. She lowered the clay bowl to his lips again. He felt ridiculous, as if he were a baby being fed by its mother. He tried to reach up to take the bowl, but the motion caused violent twinges of pain all over his body. His vision spun.

"That was stupid. Don't move."

He sucked in a breath, trying to stop the spinning in his head.

"You lie there and I give you soup. It's simple," the woman—or was she just a girl?—said.

In response, he opened his mouth.

He carefully kept his body still as she administered to him. Long minutes passed as small sips of the strong broth slid down his throat, warming him from the inside. He realized at some point that he was covered in several heavy blankets or pelts.

"That's all," she said.

Forgetting, he tried to reach for the bowl to tell her he was still hungry, but nausea stopped him. He drew in a slow breath.

"No, that's all. More later." She turned. "Sleep now."

Lakhoni lay there, knowing the hunger growling in his stomach would not let sleep come.

Sunlight streaming through cracks in the doorway told him he had been wrong. He didn't even remember closing his eyes. No dreams of his village had come. No dreams of a terrible funeral pyre had assaulted him. No dreams, but plenty of hunger.

And he felt hot. Sweat seemed to pour off his body, sliding down his neck, over his shoulders and dropping onto the mat he lay on. A shudder passed through him, bringing pain and hunger.

He groaned, trying to turn onto one side and curl up.

Now he felt cold.

A soft noise came from the doorway. Carefully keeping his head still, Lakhoni glanced in that direction. Someone came in, a blinding flash of light behind them obscuring their features. Lakhoni blinked rapidly and regretted it. His head pounded and he realized that he was very thirsty.

"Good, you need more soup." The same voice from the previous night.

He watched as the young woman approached, then knelt at his side. As his vision returned, he realized something he hadn't noticed the night before.

She was beautiful. Her long black hair framed an oval face with even, perfectly shaped features. Eyes the shape of an elm leaf, a straight and strong nose, and a lovely mouth. Lakhoni knew he was staring and didn't feel inclined to stop.

"Good, you remember. Just keep your mouth open," she said.

"Y-" he still couldn't speak. All that came out was a noise that he wouldn't have believed he could make if he hadn't just heard it.

"No, don't talk. Give it time."

Lakhoni didn't want to blink. She looked like—like a messenger from the First Fathers. Her hair dipped as she leaned closer.

"By the stones! You have to swallow!"

The moisture running down his chin and neck brought him back to the present. He closed his mouth, swallowing the small amount of spicy soup that hadn't dribbled out. Blinking at the heat of the liquid, he pulled his thoughts back together.

"There. Father says you must drink it all again, so let's go," she said.

Beautiful woman or no, he had to get back on his feet. Alronna had to be in Lemalihah.

Looking up at the woman—no, she had to be the same age as him; she was a girl—he found his eyes getting tired. They felt strained and dry.

He dropped his eyes to her hands. This was better. He and the girl quickly found a rhythm and only minutes had passed by the time the clay bowl was empty.

"Okay. Now sleep."

It cost him a moment of dizziness, but Lakhoni forced his hand to move. He tried to grab her wrist, but succeeded in only brushing it with his finger tips. Fingertips that he only just now noticed were wrapped in soft cloth. He had to get up, get moving again.

The girl's eyes flashed for a moment. She gritted her teeth. Seeing him open his mouth as if to talk, she said, swift anger in her voice, "No. Don't try to talk. Just rest. We will make you better."

Frustration welled up in him. Alronna had waited long enough.

The anger in the girl's eyes seemed to dissipate. She unclenched her jaw with a visible effort. "Listen. You are very sick. We don't know where you've come from, but we have traditions that we must obey." Her reddish-brown eyes met his. "So we'll make you better. We have questions, but you can’t answer them so we will wait. You wait too."

The girl sighed, glancing around the hut. Something in her face looked pained. Lakhoni instinctively followed her gaze as it traveled the walls. The home looked almost exactly like those of his village. Stone walls, sleeping mats, a small table, wooden shelves with trinkets, hooks sunk into some of the rocks of the wall. It was all the same, except for the tile roof. Like Salno's, because Salno had been important in the village.

"I'm sure this is hard. But we will help you get better. I can't promise Mibli won't throw you out or do something awful to you once you're better, but my father has claimed a duty to you."

Her hand rested briefly on his arm. A shock went through him at the spot she touched—it felt cold and hot at the same time. "My father is Neas. He is the healer of our village." The girl stood. "We will bring you more soup soon. As your throat heals, you can eat other things. But you have to rest now."

Lakhoni blinked, wary of moving his head.

She turned to the small fire in the middle of the hut. Bending slightly, she fed a small log to the flames. Straightening, she looked over her shoulder. "Soon you'll be able to tell us your name, and your story. For now, I'll be your healer. My name's Simra."

She turned and left the hut.

Simra.

Urgency to move toward Alronna prodded Lakhoni, but he could not deny the weakness and pain in his body. Alronna probably thought everyone in the village was dead. She was alone. Had she known about whatever it was beneath our mother's bed?

He would find out. He would heal fast and waste no time getting back on his journey.

On his back, sweat pouring from his skin, the sight of deep brown tiles not far above him, Lakhoni thought back to the cavern of the Separated.

First Fathers, please don't let this be the same, he thought. The memory of his journey through the frigid winter, the wind that was sharp as swords, was still fresh, but it seemed that someone else had experienced it. He already felt distant from those days. Images of Gimno and Sana and Corzon flitted behind his eyes.

They had cared for him and treated his injuries too. Were Simra's people going to do the same, then try to keep him captive? Am I even close to Lemalihah?

His bones ached with exhaustion; his muscles still trembled periodically.

I'm free from the Living Dead. And I'm alive.

That means I'm closer.

Servant of the King Chapter 21

noreply@blogger.com (JaredNGarrett) — Fri, 30 Jul 2010 03:34:00 +0000

Chapter 21

He lay on his back in a patch of sunshine in the middle of a clearing. He thought he could hear the daily noise from his village, somewhere just beyond sight as he turned his head to the left and right. Laughter, sharp voices, the noise of someone chopping wood or something similar. The warmth felt so good, as if it were a friend he had not seen for years. Or like his bed after a long day hunting with his father and Lamorun.

Something was wrong. He tried to push himself up to go and join his village, but he couldn't move. It was not so much that he was paralyzed, but that his limbs were too heavy for him to lift.

That was okay, it was warm here and he was comfortable.

But his family. Something told him that he hadn't seen them in a while and that they wanted him home soon. Perhaps for dinner. He had to go to dinner.

He still couldn't move, although his stomach seemed to be twisting tightly.

He had to get up. Had to see his mother and father, Lamorun and Alronna.

That was wrong. Lamorun had died in one of the king's useless wars on the Usurpers.

At the thought of the Usurpers, an image of a footprint outside of his family's hut came to him. What did that mean?

He struggled to make connections. If only he could stand, he could walk to the village and someone there would help him.

Someone there.

Alronna.

Everything in his body told him not to move as consciousness invaded. He opened his eyes, brown pine needles blurring into long spears that a rodent might use.

A dream. As he thought the word, he became instantly aware of the frigid temperature that seemed to want to absorb him and the tiny pocket of slight warmth in his torso. He had fallen asleep under the tree.

He had to move. Had to get up.

Groaning in pain, he forced himself to roll off his side onto his knees. When he put his hands down on the ground to steady himself, pain lanced through his fingers. He looked at fingers and hands; they were pale in the dim morning light that filtered through the canopy of pine branches. At least I can still feel them.

He began to crawl out from under the tree, then realized he had left his bag and bow. The quiver still hung over his shoulder. With that thought came dull pain from where the quiver must have been pressing into his side and back while he slept.

Pain.

Pain means I'm not dead yet. But one more night like this last one and Lakhoni wasn't certain he would make it through.

"I have to make it." He grunted as he dragged his things with him. He pushed his body to a standing position. Aches and stiffness forced him to try several times to straighten his back. "It can't be that far." He reached down to pick up his bag and bow. His movements were slow in the quiet of the winter morning. Slow like an oldster.

"It can't be that far."

He glanced up and only then realized that the sun was shining brightly over the mountains. The frigid wind had died too; perhaps the clouds had taken it with them as they departed.

He leaned toward the sun, willing his legs to move and catch him before he fell. It seemed that with every step, a shudder would course through him. He caught his cloak tighter around his body—or at least as tightly as it would go now that he had to carry his bow tucked under his arm. As he walked, he tried to jam his hands under his arms while still holding the cloak. He angled his breathing alternately up and down, first into his leather face mask and then down into his tunic.

The moment of warmth each breath gave fled too quickly in the face of the cold.

Every few minutes, interspersed among handfuls of snow and long, slow breaths, he would say it aloud again. "It can't be that far."

The morning passed slowly and quickly. He felt as if each step lasted an hour or more, but when he looked up into the sky, the sun was somehow behind him already.

Hunger pangs struck hard as afternoon dimmed into the evening.

He had been scouring the terrain as he walked, moving between patches of forest and open ground. He had seen no sign of any other living thing or anything edible.

Dark fell quickly. Only minutes before the sun's glow faded completely, Lakhoni found another sheltering tree.

Small and medium branches littered the bed of brown needles under the tree.

The thought of a substantial fire made his movements even clumsier than the cold had made him. Finally, after several tries, he had smoke coming from a pile of needles. Blowing gently, he added small twigs, then some small branches.

The fire's heat and warm glow seemed to kindle greater hunger in him. How long had it been? Two days? Three?

If only he could eat leather.

He held still, trying to catch the thought that followed his wish.

There. He searched the ground from his position between the fire and the tree trunk. He found a rock that was about as wide around as his hand was long. It was flat on one side, but had a very shallow cavity in it. He found another rock and started scraping at the cavity in the first rock. It didn't take him long to realize that he was making no difference.

He put the flat rock right next to the fire, then carefully sidled to the right, leaning out far enough to pick up a handful of snow. He placed the snow in the cavity of the rock; the snow melted almost immediately. Reaching to his belt, Lakhoni pulled his knife from its sheath, then carefully cut a tiny chunk of his cloak off. This he placed in the water in the cavity of the rock.

He sat as patiently as he could, for as long as he could, feeding the fire. The small amount of water actually began to bubble after a while. He left it for a few minutes longer, then used his cloak to protect his hands as he eased the rock away from the fire to cool down.

He could wait no longer. Taking the rock in leather-wrapped hands, he lifted it to his mouth, slurping the hot liquid up. A faint hint of deer meat filled his mouth. With his tongue, he took the small piece of leather out of the rock cavity and chewed on it. It was tough, but he could almost believe he was chewing on a very tough, overcooked piece of deer meat. His stomach rumbling, he chewed, praying that even this small bit of nourishment would keep him alive. He felt his eyelids getting heavy.

"Too tired," he said. His unused voice sounded strange to him. This diminishment of his energy felt like it was a bad sign. He guessed that it would simply continue as his body fought the frigid cold with so little food to fuel it.

Shaking his head, he repeated the process of making leather cloak soup. As he did, his thoughts turned to the buck he had tried to take the… How long ago was that? Was that yesterday? How did deer do it? They seemed to manage winters fine. He thought back to the buck pushing its nose through the snow, seeking food. He knew that they ate winter moss throughout the season, but was that all they ate?

Winter moss. If it could feed a deer, could he eat it too?

Lakhoni pushed himself away from his small fire and tiny amount of bland soup. He scrabbled under the branches of the pine tree and, the darkness nearly complete but for the stars and a rising moon, searched the woods for one of the rare winter-naked trees. It didn't take him long. Finding one, he fell to his knees and dug through the snow at the base of the tree with leather-covered hands.

Starlight illuminated the winter moss, making it look pale and almost ghostly. Lakhoni pulled some and brought it to his nose. The smell of green things filled him, sending images of spring into his mind. He touched his tongue to the moss. No flavor. Next he took a small bit into his mouth and chewed. He had eaten grass before and this tasted much the same, only heavier—closer to what he imagined earth would taste like.

The flavor wasn't one of the several flavors his father had taught him to watch out for as poisonous.

"It couldn't hurt," he said. He stood and returned to his shrinking fire.

Lakhoni broke the moss into tiny bits and added it to the already hot water in the cavity of the rock. He would leave it longer this time to see if the leather would soften more. He sat, adding fuel to the fire, the moments of near-comfort allowing him to send his mind on old paths.

The Separated could not track him. He felt confident that he had thoroughly escaped them. Maybe they thought he had died and expected to find his corpse in the spring. He planned on disappointing them. He felt that these moments of clarity were an opportunity for him to confirm his objective in being out in this terrible cold.

Alronna had been taken from the village, along with something else that came from under his mother's sleeping mat. Something about the size of a new baby—if that baby were in a square container of some kind. His village was gone, the people murdered.

Justice or a sister? He snapped a thin branch over his knee. Am I after only Alronna, or am I supposed to bring justice to our family's murderers. Lakhoni sat there, waiting for his leather moss soup, looking inward for the rage that had filled him so many months before—the anger that had fueled him less than a week previous.

He could not find it. No storm roiled in his soul anymore. Instead, he found a banked fire, its heat and glow nearly gone. He couldn't call it rage or fury. He didn't know what to call it, but it felt like the gently glowing coals of this fire were not wood coals but were something stronger, harder and hotter. Like they were stones heated by a mighty force and made to glow in darkness, lighting the way through a journey.

Finding and rescuing Alronna would not be enough. The king and his raiders must answer for their crimes. It had to be like in the village. If someone stole something, they were made to return it, then they had to receive a number of lashes to their hands, then serve the person whose property they had stolen.

Restitution. There had to be restitution and justice. He fed a stick to the fire before him. He didn't know how he would be able to mete out that justice. But he also wasn't supposed to be alive and wasn't supposed to have been able to escape from the Separated. I've made it this far. I'll find a way.

Not because of anger or grief, but because law demanded it.

Maybe not the king's law, Lakhoni thought, but a different kind of law. "Something greater," he said. He reached for his miniscule amount of soup and brought it to his mouth. The rock's heat felt good against his leather-covered hands. The soup's flavor was stronger this time. Leather moss soup was not delicious, but it was better than nothing.

As he lowered the rock, the heat he felt gave him another idea. He found more rocks under the tree and put them all just on the edges of his mid-sized fire. Then he sat there, chewing leather, feeding the fire and resisting the urge to make more leather moss soup. If he wasn't careful, he would eat his entire cloak.

Just before sleep took him, Lakhoni arranged the warm rocks in different positions along his body, curling around them. His stomach still rumbled. His toes still felt as if they were steadily freezing. But a feeling that he had crossed some kind of horrible chasm filled him. As if a difficult bridge had been traversed successfully.

He wasn't finished yet. Not going to die under this tree either.

* * * * *

Lakhoni came to a stream early the next morning. He guessed it was about four paces wide. Ice and snow covered it. How thick could the ice be? He found a dead branch and swept the snow off a small space near the stream's bank. Next he found a rock and, crouching low, slammed it into the ice. Cracks formed with the first strike. Only three hard hits later, freezing water splashed up as chunks of ice split apart. He had a hole that was about a half pace in width.

”Now what?" The idea of catching a fish had so overtaken him that he hadn't thought about what he would use to do it. He stood there, looking blankly at the hole he had made. He needed a net, but it would have to be small. And what would he use to make the net?

He could use an arrow head as a hook and lower it on a thin strip from his cloak. "Bait?" he asked himself.

No idea revealed itself. He had a hole in ice, and perhaps fish swimming in the water underneath the ice. But he had no way of catching one.

"Sorry stream." He walked several paces to the right, then crossed the stream quickly. Orienting himself on the sun again, he left the stream behind. "Is it better to talk to streams or to myself?"

He let the question dissipate in the still winter air along with the cloud of his breath. "If the stream talks back, that's probably better," he said, a grunt of laughter following. He laughed again, this time louder. It hurt his chest and throat, but felt good somewhere else—somewhere deeper. "Better if a stream talks back!" The bursts of laughter felt wild. An abandon he had never felt before washed through him. "So talk back, stream!"

Lakhoni flung his hands out wide, welcoming the odd sensation that filled him. Nothing mattered beyond each breath, each step. If he could beat the winter with leather moss soup, nothing could stop him. And if winter won the day, so be it. All that mattered was that he still breathed and would fight for each breath. Exhilaration filled him. His bones seemed to burn with a sudden power. "Talk back!" He laughed at the clouds forming heavy bundles in the west. He screamed at the frozen woods and brush. He fell to his knees, bellowing his defiance. His chest and throat burned. His stomach was a chasm that would never again be filled. And still he shouted.

He didn't know when his screams became tears. He only knew that he found himself on all fours, his feet and hands feeling as though they were frozen to the ground. Tears poured off his cheeks, and out the slits in his mask, dropping and leaving tiny holes in the snow beneath him. He lowered himself so that his forearms rested in the snow and tried to catch his breath. He had to keep breathing. The snow felt soft beneath him, strangely warm. It would make a nice bed.

No. He still had several hours of daylight. He could walk more.

But a little rest. Maybe some leather moss soup. He could find a tree.

Lakhoni felt his body pulling downward—the ground reaching up for him.

Why not?

Nobody would know.

He heaved in a freezing breath. Sharp pain, like tiny icicles, jabbed the inside of his chest.

Nobody would know.

But he had to fight for each breath. He could breathe just as well, maybe better, if he were walking. He pushed himself up, scrabbling through the powdery snow until he was on only hands and knees again. He pushed again, arching his back and getting his feet under him.

He stood. Pain. There was pain and breathing. That was all.

He looked to the crisp blue sky and found the sun.

Tucking his bow under his arm and his cloak tighter around his shaking body, Lakhoni took a step forward.

A spasm of coughing burst out of him.

He took another step.

He breathed in, holding the air until it felt warm again, then blew out, first into his mask, then his tunic.

Another step.

He found himself in a wide pasture of rolling mounds of snow. The forest had ended.

Another step. Another breath.

No more than an hour had passed when he saw the glint of fire and the shadows it threw on a circle of stone huts.

Servant of the King Chapter 20

noreply@blogger.com (JaredNGarrett) — Tue, 27 Jul 2010 14:07:00 +0000

Chapter 20

Stars glistened like countless jewels on a blanket of midnight black. He felt that if he stopped for long enough, he could count each and every one of them in the night sky.

And then I would freeze. Somebody would find a Lakhoni statue.

The ridiculous thought fluttered away, stolen by the full-body shudders that slammed through Lakhoni's body with terrifying regularity. He had been walking for so long that he no longer had to force his legs to move, carrying him forward through the pine trees that made up this new forest.

Seven days.

His eighth night in the frigid winter.

And I still have no idea if I am getting anywhere near Lemalihah.

He wondered if he would ever be able to smell anything, or for that matter taste anything, again. His face felt carved from ice, despite the swath of deer skin that covered everything but his eyes. He had punched a small hole for him to breathe through as well and had initially been amused when icicles began to form around it.

Now there was no energy for laughter. No energy for thoughts that moved far from walking eastward.

Lakhoni resisted the impulse to glance over his shoulder. Just keep going. Nobody's there. He had spent his first night away from the cavern jogging and walking, praying to the First Fathers for snow. He had decided, as the first flakes fell, that his prayers had been answered, although he was certain it would have snowed without his prayers.

What was the purpose of those prayers then?

The thought evaporated in the cold, the shivers that took control of his body, the numbness that was traveling down his fingertips.

Those first flakes had been the beginning of an angry snowstorm that had lasted two days. Was it three? It didn't matter. All that mattered was that there was no possible way any of the Separated could have tracked him. He had escaped.

A tremor of hunger flared in his stomach, fighting with his shivers. His meat had run out the previous day, despite all of his rationing. He had finished the last half of an apple this morning.

He had escaped the Separated, but he was beginning to wonder if he would simply die out here in the raw winter. As he walked, he made sure to keep his eyes open for any sign of wildlife he might be able to trap or shoot with his bow. He had seen nothing for days; only sentinel-like pine trees, snow that rippled like a shaken blanket, and vast sky.

No paths. No animals. No sign of a village or any other human.

He felt he must be the only creature that moved on the earth.

None would miss him if he simply gave in to the exhaustion that seemed to be making his bones ache. He could wrap his deer hide and blanket tightly around himself, start a final fire, then go to sleep. As he slept, his fire would surely fade, and so would he.

No. Alronna. She was out there. She had to be in Lemalihah. What was happening to her there? Was she being hurt?

Frustration kindled in him. He stoked the tiny inner fire with thoughts of the injustice and cruelty of the king. Flames of anger lengthened his stride, made him blink the chill from his eyes and focus more. I have to eat.

He decided to walk more slowly so that he might increase his chances for seeing signs of wildlife. Despite the pale light that reflected from the snow from the stars and sliver of a moon, he could make out little of detail on the snow's surface.

Tomorrow. He would spend tomorrow looking for food. Then he would resume his journey. Tonight he had to find a place to rest.

He knew what to look for: a large pine tree with wide, low-hanging branches. It would shelter him from much of the frigid wind and there was always a thick bed of old, dried pine needles on the ground under such trees. Good fuel for a small fire.

After a few minutes of searching, he found exactly what he needed. The tree stood tall, as if it were the captain of the army of trees surrounding it. He ducked low, trying to keep from knocking snow off the branches above down upon him. He lowered himself to the ground, putting his back against the rough tree trunk.

He set his bag on the ground and retrieved the spark rocks. Next, he gathered a goodly pile of dried needles, leaning to one then the other side to get as many as he could reach without having to get up. He cleared a space in front of him, exposing the hard, cold ground beneath the needles. With only a few tries, he had smoke coming from the small pile of needles he had arranged on the bare spot.

Gently blowing and carefully adding more needles as needed, he soon had a small fire crackling. He leaned in close to thaw his face. After what felt like hours, he could finally smell the aroma of burning pine.

He built the fire higher, adding some small, dead branches that were scattered in among the dead needles under the tree. The heat hurt his frozen fingertips, the pain lingering for a long time. Nothing's fallen off yet, he thought. He didn't dare to remove his boots to confirm this hope, but instead moved his feet closer to the fire, hoping the heat would penetrate the frozen leather.

Opening the blanket and cloak he had wrapped around his body, he willed the heat of his small fire into his flesh.

His stomach rumbled, jealous of the slight comfort the rest of his body was enjoying.

Tomorrow. He would kill some food…

The thought drifted away as sleep overcame him.

* * * * *

A sharp jabbing, like the point of a spear, in his cheek dragged him from the weight of dangerous sleep. Lakhoni jerked groggily awake, forcing himself from already fading dreams of cave-like darkness.

It hurt. He felt as if he were fighting part of himself that wanted to stay in that position forever, hoarding the pocket of warmth that he had trapped in his middle.

He lay curled in a ball, pine needles pricking his cheek. Black and gray ash, snowflake light, and all that remained of his miniscule fire, scattered as he willed himself to scrabble into a seated position.

The ache in his stomach felt like another spear, this one digging and twisting, seeking his spine.

He gathered his bag, grateful to the canopy of pine branches that had kept the frost from covering it. And him. Two, maybe three mornings previous, he had woken and found himself covered in a fair dusting of snow.

Dangerous. Have to move.

On hands and knees, pointy needles under his palms, he crawled out from under the canopy, lurching to his feet in the snow that came up past his ankles. It was soft and light; easily blown by the almost constant frigid wind.

Hunt. I was going to hunt today.

Lakhoni looked to the nearly uniform, gray sky. After a brief moment of searching, he found the glow that indicated the sun's position. East. He would continue east, but much slower. And he would find food.

Surely he wasn't the only thing moving in the woods. He would find a deer, or a rabbit. Even a predator of some kind. Or maybe a frozen stream that would have sleepy fish wandering under a layer of ice.

He began to walk, coughing to clear his chest. This did not feel like a spear; it was more like a small animal that was chewing its way out through his ribs. His throat burned as well. He knew these were signs of winter illness. But he knew there was nothing he could do.

As he walked, he swung his arms down periodically, filling his hands with snow and bringing them up to his mouth. Mouthfuls of snow melted as he held them until they were warm enough to swallow. In this manner, he made his careful way through the trees, scouring the ground and trees for signs of life. Scattered snow at the base of a tree. Torn bark exposing a tree's tender trunk.

There would be something. There had to be.

Hours passed. His legs moved of their own accord. A sense of futility began to fill Lakhoni. He knew he was going mostly east and felt like he would surely run into Lemalihah eventually. It was supposed to be a large city; how could he miss it? But despite that inevitability, he knew his body would only continue functioning for so long in this weather. Branches clothed with deep green winter gowns filled his vision. Trunks, dark and rough, sap frozen in lighter bumps wandered through his sight as he walked. Splotches of lighter brown interspersed with whorls where old tree branches had fallen off.

Lakhoni held snow in his mouth and trailed to a stop.

Lighter brown splotches. A tingle shot through him from neck to feet. Swallowing the newly melted water, he pushed through the snow to the tree trunk he had just seen. He bent close, examining the uneven scarring on the trunk's bark. Yes, this had been an animal. It didn't look to be too old, either. He turned to the ground, seeking further evidence. Questing out further from the tree, he found the deer droppings long minutes later. He crouched near the pile of round pellets. Taking his cloak and wrapping part of it around his right hand, he carefully brushed a small layer of snow away from the area surrounding the droppings, seeking hoof prints in the snow.

Nothing; just a uniform layer of snow.

If there had been a slight thaw, he might have found prints that had broken through a crust of snow, leaving evidence behind. But the cold had never broken once it had set in.

Lakhoni began walking in ever-widening circles around the tree trunk and deer scat. He had to be at least fifty hands from the original tree when he found a patch of somewhat bare ground at the base of a tree. Tiny, light green flecks colored the dark earth. This had been a patch of winter moss. He looked back toward the other tree, deducing the movement of the deer.

In this manner, walking in wider and wider circles around trees, ducking low branches, and shivering as his body protested the prolonged cold, he hunted. The morning passed and Lakhoni hoped he wasn't fantasizing the feeling that the spoor he was following seemed to be getting fresher.

It was early afternoon, his stomach rumbling loud enough that he was sure the noise would echo off the tree trunks around him, that he found the trail in the snow. There was no denying it; this was a deer trail. He searched the trail, seeking evidence of the direction the deer had been moving in. He searched for many minutes before he found the nearly complete hoof print.

South.

With a brief, regretful glance to the east, Lakhoni followed the trail.

Afternoon light was dimming toward evening when Lakhoni realized that the light brown, fallen tree he had been staring at was not a tree. He immediately crouched, estimating the distance. Nearly a hundred paces. He slid his bow off his shoulder, standing behind a tree and quickly stringing it. This was harder than usual in the cold, but it still took little effort. He tested the stinging wind, then moved carefully to the right so that he could be totally downwind of the buck he had sighted.

With its antlers, it stood taller than his father, taller than even Gimno.

Giddy eagerness filled Lakhoni. Food. He tried to tell his stomach to stop complaining so loudly as he stalked quietly nearer the deer.

He pulled an arrow out of the quiver that also hung over a shoulder. Now he was grateful for the feather-light snow. It muffled sound perfectly.

Sixty paces now.

He ghosted forward, staying low and doing all he could to blend in with the trees.

The buck was alone. It nosed through the snow, seeking sustenance of its own. Lakhoni wondered briefly if it was the leader of a herd, wondering if deer missed other deer that never came back.

As he approached within thirty paces, Lakhoni chose the spot he would shoot from. A thick pine tree, its lowest branches forming a widely spreading tent over the ground, stood tall and straight less than twenty paces from the deer. He angled his movement so that the tree was directly between him and the buck. Reaching the tree, he contorted himself between branches, careful to not disturb snow or make any kind of noise.

He knew that any sound would carry a long distance in this frozen landscape.

Thanking the First Fathers, Lakhoni set his arrow to the bowstring. This would be a direct shot, but the distance was greater than he preferred. The arrow would have to fly perfectly. He caressed the fletching on the arrow, hoping to make it even straighter. He stepped to the right of the pine trunk, standing tall between two large branches.

There. He could aim just over that branch. The buck moved forward, still digging through the snow on the ground.

Composing mental prayers to the First Fathers, Lakhoni raised the bow, drawing the string slightly back. He brought the bow up enough so that the tip of his arrow pointed right at the buck's shoulder. A long distance. He expanded his chest, fighting to control his breathing and stretching his left arm forward as his right arm pulled backward. Shaky. Too shaky.

He relaxed the pull, taking long, deep breaths.

Again he raised the bow and pulled the string back. His right hand was at his cheek. He sighted down the arrow. One breath in, then out. He pulled the string back more, his right hand going behind his ear.

An explosion of noise stunned Lakhoni momentarily. At the same moment that he watched the buck jerk up, then bound away. a flash of burning pain on his right ear and cheek, as well as on his neck, struck him.

Despair rolled over him in a dark wave. He sunk to his knees. He didn't have to look to confirm what he knew had happened.

His father had taught him better than this. "Always rub your string in your hands before shooting in winter," he had said. "It's a deer tendon, so it will break because of the cold."

Lakhoni fell back against the tree trunk. He put a hand to his face. No blood, but the tension in the string before it broke must have caused it to leave a red mark on his face and neck.

He held the bow up before him and watched the two broken lengths of tendon swing gently in the wind. He wished he could take back the prayers of gratitude he had offered only moments before.

Why be grateful? He was going to die out here. Probably under this tree.

I promise...

noreply@blogger.com (JaredNGarrett) — Wed, 09 Jun 2010 04:19:00 +0000

I will be back to post more Servant of the King soon. My Master of Arts program has hijacked my life and has slapped me with a lot of hairy deadlines.

But I'm about at a point at which I can breathe, so I will be back soon with more of this fun yarn. I really miss posting it here and hearing from you lovely readers, so never fear. It will start again soon.

Love and blessings!

Not Servant of the King, sorry.

noreply@blogger.com (JaredNGarrett) — Tue, 01 Jun 2010 03:47:00 +0000

I wanted to post an essay I wrote about this country and my feelings for it. I do this because today is Memorial Day and my family has made a point of taking time on this holiday to talk about what Memorial Day really means-- and should mean-- to us.

So here's the essay. Some of you may have seen it before.

American Days

It’s been many years since I last set my eyes upon those amber waves of grain in the heartland of our nation. Years made of days that have left their indelible mark on my face and my heart. Some of those days were, as with so many other Americans, filled with great joy. Others with stunning heartbreak. Some American days passed in the quiet majesty of a baby’s first breath. Other American days tore deeply into the fabric of my soul, changing me in ways both grand and tiny.

American days.

What do they mean to me today? Do these American days mean anything to anyone beyond me, here at this dinner table? I don’t hear echoes of my family’s last dinner, but I do see the final, fading shadows of my daughter’s perfect joy as she pushes her chair out, eager for the busy playing. My cherub-son’s rosy cheeked shadow joins her in noisy life.

Her hug, tight and fragile. She had a bad dream.

My privilege, precious and divine. A father. Living these American days.

What do these American days mean? A president both worshipped and despised. Movements growing; fading. Anger, rapture, tears of fear and joy. All of these happen each day—and these American days continue. No war; no secession. Those American days have passed.

So what does America’s today mean?

American days mean nurtured potential. They mean love of God, country and family. They mean strength, moral authority, the holding up of a light. American days mean duty, honor, and the capacity to choose a prosperous, righteous destiny.

To me, American days do not represent a shifting of values to match modern attitudes.

I have had the remarkable privilege of residing in twelve of the fifty states in the United States of America. I have been exposed to countless religions, philosophies and moralities. I have had the opportunity to spend significant time immersed in the language and culture of Brazil, England, Japan and Taiwan. Throughout these journeys, I still lived American days, because I was and am American.

I now believe that every country is filled with potential, based entirely on the good people of the individual nation. But I refuse to fight the feeling that the United States of America is closer to fulfilling the measure of its potential than any other country. Even in our modern American days, this nation seems better equipped to reach that ultimate potential as well.

I feel like American days plead with me to become more than myself, to seek the good for shining seas and a banner that yet waves.

I think about early American days—those of John Adams, George Washington, Thomas Jefferson and their colleagues. What did those days mean to those men whom I see as great Americans? I have read about them and seen their flawed humanity. I have felt their fear but also their courage. I have watered pages as I walked with them down the road of righteous treason for the love of their God, family and country.

I have felt to raise the torch of independence and freedom, to join with these men in revolution against injustice and tyranny. Sometimes I wish my American days were theirs.

What of good have I done with my American days? I have loved my God, my family and my nation. I have read declaration and highest law. I have shaken with simmering anger at American days that seem determined to become—other days.

I do not accept a fundamental shift in my American days. The bedrock of my nation is faith founded in firm principle, morality and hope. Hope for better. Hope for solutions. Hope for American days that stretch forward into prosperity.

I plead with my keyboard that this nation not abandon its American days and turn to convenient philosophies that will not save our future. I shake myself from a stupor, determined to not blindly follow partisan days or special interest days.

I follow American days and I am not alone. Though I felt alone as a child, I am not alone in America’s today. When I was young I lived without a family or love, but I lived American days, like millions of others. When older, I lived American days teaching in foreign lands, fighting against the entropy of laziness. Now I sit at my family table, basking in the joy of blessings and peace, worried about bills and accounts, wishing I could make my voice louder. I love today. I want to love tomorrow.

Now I see American days where a president went from beloved to hated in short years, yet I love these days.

Now I see American days where a man can become not himself, yet still somewhere inside, himself—and become outside a president. I still love these days.

Now I see American days filled with media misrepresentations on all sides, and I love these days.

Now I see American days where money like sand is spent on entertainment and filming anteaters in Borneo, while people suffer from hunger and the miasma of entitlement. Yet I still love these days.

Now I see American days where highest law is forgotten by convenience, power and status quo. I fear for our days, but I still love them.

Now I see American days filled with people who cannot argue with respect, cannot see the other side, cannot get off their horse—and yet we are still here and so many still believe. And I love these days.

Now I see American days where the divide between people seems like an intractable ocean, but we are still here—we are still living American days in relative peace. I love these days.

Now I see American days where I can sit in a bus station, watching people of all sizes, shapes and colors—and I have no reason to think any of them are not living American days. Lord, how I love these days.

I love an American day that, when parades are done, hot band uniforms removed, and charcoal is cooling, allow for reflection. I celebrate my American day.

I love these American days. I admit that I fear for future American days.

But my hope is stronger than my fear.

Chapter 19 of Servant of the King

noreply@blogger.com (JaredNGarrett) — Thu, 27 May 2010 16:58:00 +0000

Short chapter. Very important. The entire WIP is at 37,800 words.

Chapter 19

The frozen edge of the wind slashed the final tenacious leaves off bony trees, hurling the leaves through the night, freezing them so that when they finally hit the ground they shattered. Gusts lifted puffs of snow from the white-blanketed earth, casting icy clouds about and softening the edges of a path of footprints that marred the otherwise smooth groundcover. The deepest sets of footprints formed a straight line that exited the tree line on one side of the ravine, down that ravine wall, and across what had once been the bed of a river. Other footprints seemed more shallow and wandered somewhat, although they also ended at an enormous pile of rocks that covered a wide stretch of the opposite side of the ravine.

Minions of the army of wind whistled through cracks in those rocks, probing for space in which to cause havoc. The last dregs of the blistering cold finally broke through the rocks and found defeat in the torch-lit warmth of a small cavern. Two tall figures stood next to one of the smaller segments of cave wall, their profiles illuminated intermittently by wavering torch flames. They held a small, slumped figure that seemed to be sleeping and having a nightmare. Regular moans and protests exited the sleeping form.

Two other tall shapes stood in the shadows near a narrow corridor that stretched away from the small cavern. Their postures indicated alertness, their faces turned to the darkness of the corridor.

Two stools stood in the middle of the room, a large shape sitting on one and a smaller, but still adult, shape perched on the other.

"The time is fast approaching," the smaller figure said, voice hushed. "Patience for just a little longer, my friend."

"Patience is one thing out in the middle of nowhere," the larger figure said. "So you keep prattling about patience, sitting in your comfortable caves, while I do all the work. Patience is easy for you."

"But you have found the guide. Now we just need the sword." The smaller figure raised a hand as if to touch the larger and calm him down. The hand stopped inches from the larger man.

"The guide does me no good locked up."

"Does 'us' no good, you mean."

"Of course." The larger figure grunted dismissively.

"It is safe, so you say. That's all that matters for now."

"No, what matters is that we finish this finally. What matters is that you stop stalling and get your people ready to move."

"You must be joking. It's the dead of winter." The smaller figure stood, scorn in his voice.

"Of course I don't mean now. But as soon as spring arrives, we move."

The small figure paced around the cavern, his face seeming to change shape in the dancing light. "You assume that we will have the sword by then."

"I will have it."

"And yet you have made no progress with the girl."

"But I will." The larger man turned in his seat, keeping his eye fixed on the other man. "She says she knows nothing, but that can't be true."

"What if it is?"

A heavy growl, very similar to that of the jungle cats that roamed the forest outside, rumbled from the large man's chest. He rose to his feet with a dangerous grace, the tension in his body making him look ready to pounce. "I will still find it. You should stop worrying about my end, old man. You get your people ready."

"Relax, my friend."

Another growl. "Stop telling me to relax. You relax in your secret cavern while I do all of the work and put myself in danger. You let yourself get served hand and foot by these idiots," the man gestured at the two guards standing at the head of the corridor that headed deeper into the earth. "But don't forget that we are both in this, and if one of us fails, we both do. And we both die."

"Nice speech," the smaller man said. "But you cannot hurry the winter. You use your muscle with the girl and I will use a more gentle approach with my charge." The small man turned casually toward the corridor, flipping a hand in the direction of the slumped figure held by the two large men. "Take him."

The corridor guards stepped forward, skin flashing deep red, and accepted the semi-conscious captive from the other men. The guards dragged the slumped figure after the small man as he made his way into the corridor.

A growl escaping from his throat, his jaw muscles visibly tensing in anger, the large man stepped toward the segment of cave wall his men were standing near.

"And Shule," came the small man's voice, echoing down the corridor. "Patience!"

The large man cursed. "We will see who rules when this is over." He palmed the cave wall and pushed. The wall swiveled smoothly outward, as if it were any well-hung wooden door. The freezing winter wind immediately filled the small cave, extinguishing one of the torches. Cinching his heavy bear fur tightly around him, the large man stepped out into the stark night, his two men following and the door swinging closed of its own accord.

The three men strode silently through the snow, following their footprints across the ravine. Shining down with pale light that matched the frozen land, the moon illuminated the men as they made their way up the far side of the ravine, their movements economical and precise. Moments later, still making no sound, the three men melted into the shadows cast by the naked trees of the forest.

Now for Chapter 18...

noreply@blogger.com (JaredNGarrett) — Mon, 17 May 2010 18:40:00 +0000

Here is Chapter 18. Total word count for the book so far: 36,700.

Chapter 18

Lakhoni tucked the wrinkled apple under his arm, allowing the folds of his tunic to hide it. With his other hand he lifted a speared piece of roast venison to his mouth and tore a chunk off. He knew the meat tasted good, that the hot juices were supposed to fill his mouth with pleasure, but his stomach was already so full of meat that he could no longer taste anything. He eased into his hut and crouched on his sleeping mat, moving the hidden apple from his armpit and putting it under the small pile of clothes to the side of his mat.

He had to catch two other apples that tried to roll away and shove them back under the clothes.

Forcing himself to chew, he stood again, looking over his hopefully discreet preparations. Nobody had said anything, and he felt confident that he wasn't getting any unusual looks.

And why should he? He had been with the Separated for several months. He had trained with Anor and Corzon, had been Groomed and participated in the murder of a young boy. He had helped the newest Consecrated complete his journey to join with the Bonaha's cadre of special servants.

He was one of them.

He stepped back out of the hut, taking another bite of the meat.

"Hungry tonight."

Lakhoni turned and grunted at Corzon, nodding.

"You've eaten half a haunch yourself," Corzon said.

Trying not to grimace with discomfort as he swallowed, Lakhoni nodded again. "Yeah. I feel like my stomach is a bottomless pit. It's like I can't get full."

"You're probably going through a growth season." Corzon paced toward the fire, his hand filled with his eating utensils. "Just be careful you don't let the growth go to your nose."

"Don't want to end up like you," Lakhoni said, shoving the last of the venison on his small knife into his mouth. He felt like he had actually eaten an entire deer. But he wasn't finished. He had to fill his stomach full, get every bit of food into his body tonight that he could.

"That's right," Corzon said. "Too skinny so the girls worry they'll break me in bed."

"No." Lakhoni followed Corzon to the fire. He sliced another piece of meat off the haunch that dripped steadily into the glowing coals. "I thought they were worried you would put their eyes out in the heat of passion."

"You see," Corzon turned to Lakhoni, a sad expression on his face. "I can't win!"

"Well, maybe it's better to stay away from the girls than to be like Anor."

"Anor is doing his manly duty," Corzon said. "It's about time you got to it as well."

"Right."

Corzon smiled and raised his eyebrows. "What? You don't think the girls are interested in the newest addition to the Separated? You don't think they would swoon if they got the chance to wrap their loving, very shapely, arms around the poor lad who's the lone survivor of a tragic attack?"

Lakhoni fought down the sudden desire to leap at Corzon and slam his knife into him. How could he talk like that? He gritted his teeth and forced a smile. "But that would be taking advantage of their pity."

"And what's wrong with that?"

Lakhoni opened his mouth to offer a retort, but found he had none. Instead he took another bite of venison.

"See? Nothing at all. You get your pick of the lovely young ladies, let off some steam, and maybe you'll find one you like." Corzon lowered himself to sit on one of the large stones surrounding the fire.

Lakhoni snorted, now fighting off an entirely different urge—this one to agree. He had to admit he had noticed some of the girls of the Separated. Their glinting eyes, shapely legs and smiles had certainly left an impression. But he had never actually believed that they would be interested in him that way. He dropped onto a wood stump near Corzon.

Besides, his village had gone about things much differently from the Separated. Here it seemed like, until you were joined to a single mate like Gimno and Vena, you had your pick of partners. In his village, the young men and women were expected to save themselves and then offer themselves as a gift to the new marriage.

"I've got you thinking, don't I?" Corzon grinned wide. "You're probably thinking about Hana or Jasnia right now, aren't you?"

Jasnia's wide smile flashed through his mind. He shook his head. "No. The time's not right."

"Lakhoni," Corzon intoned. "The time is always right."

Lakhoni laughed. "Or never, in your case."

Corzon adopted a wounded expression. "Joke about such a sensitive subject, will you?" He glanced around, then leaned in with a conspiratorial glint in his eye. "Truth is, me and Melana are promised to each other. But you can't tell anyone."

Shock hit Lakhoni like a ball of snow in the face. How? How can they go about a normal life when they murder and won't let anyone leave? He realized that he must look like a dying fish. "Wow. That's amazing, Corzon. Congratulations."

"You have to keep this quiet." Corzon cast a quick look about the circle of huts. "Her father doesn't know yet."

Melana was not much older than Alronna—maybe fourteen years old. Lakhoni wondered what his father would have done had one of the village boys courted Alronna. A twinge of pain flared, but he paid it no mind. It was becoming easier to fight back the grief. He wondered if he should be happy about that.

"Of course," Lakhoni said. "I won't tell anyone."

"Especially Anor. He would take pleasure in ruining this for me."

"Especially Anor," Lakhoni said. He realized he hadn't taken a bite of venison for a few minutes. He eyed the dark meat on his knife. He felt as if he had swallowed a wet sleeping mat. He let out an uncomfortable breath.

"Not hungry anymore?"

"No," Lakhoni said, flicking the meat into the coals. "I guess not."

* * * * *

He had struggled to keep himself awake, even as he made his breathing even and kept his eyes closed. He had counted the stones making up the wall next to his sleeping mat three times after the last sound of activity had faded.

Now he carefully turned, trying to make it appear as if his sleep was restless. Unless they were feigning sleep as well, Anor and Corzon were out too. Corzon's nightly chorus of snores was just warming up.

Lakhoni rolled back, this time to face the wall. He pulled the leather bag he had found two days previous out from under his mat. He didn't know whose it was, and to tell the truth he didn't care. After tonight, they couldn't do anything to him. Moving as quietly as possible, he pushed a tunic into the bag, then all of the apples. Next he pushed his second pair of breeches into the bag. This was a pair that one of the Separated who had gone with him to his village had found. Since then, nobody had seen any more signs of the Usurpers.

Next, he shoved a pouch full of smoked meat into the bag, then followed that with the two loaves of bread he had hidden over the last three days.

He would wear his last tunic, his boots and the breeches he had been wearing during the day. He would also take his blanket to help ward off the cold.

For this first night, he would not have to worry about finding a protected place to sleep; he would be on the move until well into the next morning.

Still moving carefully, Lakhoni got dressed, leaving the boots off for now and tying them so he could drape them over his neck. He picked up his bag, gripping it tightly in his left fist and stepped toward the door Almost forgot! He padded back to his sleeping mat and grabbed his knife in its sheath. He slid it into the tight waistband of his breeches.

He peeked out the door. Nothing. Breathing slowly through his mouth, he stepped out of the hut and quickly departed Gimno's circle. As he padded in bare feet along the wall of the cavern, he wondered if he should feel… sorry or sad to go. He looked inward.

Nothing. He had always known he would never feel at home here. Even with someone like Corzon who was almost a friend. And Gimno who treated him like a son. Vena who had been so concerned about him when he first came.

As he thought about each person, he found that there was an undeniable feeling of warmth and affection for them. Even for Anor, despite the young man's gruff treatment of him.

But he had no concern about leaving. They might miss him, but he was sure they would happily kill him if they knew he was planning to go directly to the king's city.

Keeping to the darkest shadows in the nearly-black cavern, Lakhoni quickly made his way to the entrance corridor. He knew that there was usually a guard on duty to make sure that nobody stumbled into the cavern by mistake, but since that never happened, it was common knowledge that the guard usually went to sleep in one of the alcoves next to the shaft leading to the surface. Lakhoni had seen the blankets there.

He knew he could get out of the cavern without being seen. As long as Corzon and Anor slept soundly and nobody else happened to discover he was gone in the next few minutes, he would get out of the lair of the Separated. The next issue was getting far enough away in the snowstorm that had begun the previous day.

He crept along the corridor, pausing with each step to listen for any noise. As he rounded one turn, he began to hear the soft song of the winter wind. Many careful steps later, he found himself at the bottom of the shaft. He hung the strap of his bag over his shoulder, check to make sure his boots were still tied tightly, and reached up for the first handle.

Lakhoni had climbed up and down this shaft so many times that before he noticed any effort, he was already outside. Wind blew hard against his face, the snow on the ground scraping with frozen claws at his feet.

But no snow fell.

He looked to the sky. No stars were visible. Merely a heavy, gray mass could be seen. Should I go back and wait until a night that I know it's snowing? His heart beat loudly in his chest. After all of his preparation.

Surely it would snow more tonight, or at least in the early morning.

He couldn't imagine going back. Didn't want to wait again, worried that he might never get away. He found a nearby tree and leaned on it, his feet already freezing. He pulled his boots on, drew his second tunic out of his bag and put it on, and turned east, thankful he had been out enough to be able to know the direction without depending on the stars.

He began to walk. The tall, dark shapes of the trees hinted at watchers hiding behind them, firing Lakhoni's imagination. Could they have guessed what he would do? Were Gimno and other warriors smiling to themselves at his folly as they waited behind those trees?

Lakhoni shook his head against the worry. They had no way of knowing.

His lips began to stiffen in the cold, his fingers as well.

The wind would be alright if it brought snow. For now, it only made Lakhoni feel he was taking two steps for every step of progress he made.

The icy gusts cut through his tunics.

He had to get to that hide and wrap himself in it. He regretted not stealing one of Anor's warm cloaks.

I could run back, steal one and be back out here without anyone knowing.

But if the snow never came, or came too late, he would be that much closer to being found.

Lakhoni began to jog, hoping to warm his body with the movement. After what felt like an hour, he finally felt like he had enough body heat built up. He kept up the pace, his hands tucked into his arm pits and his head ducked against the wind.

Please First Fathers! Bring the snow! He glanced behind, easily seeing in the gloom of the night his footprints in the snow. The wind was helping somewhat, blowing snow around a little and softening the pits he was leaving in the snow, but he knew it wasn't enough.

After another hour of jogging, his face felt like a block of river ice. He had taken to cupping his hands on his face every few minutes, allowing his breath to warm his lips and nose. But the effect didn't last long.

As he moved, he made sure to follow the path to his stashed meat in the hide. The split tree there, the rock formation that looked like Corzon with his huge nose that sat under the skinny birch.

That was it. The pale light of the winter night illuminated the marker he had left. He had placed a pile of rocks on top of the hole he had dug, not wanting to take chances with scavengers. He moved the rocks, placing them in what he thought looked like natural positions on the ground. He pulled his tunic sleeves over his hands and dug through the snow, quickly finding the loose, frozen dirt underneath. With his knife, he dug into the earth, stopping at regular intervals to breathe on his hands.

The hide was cold and hard under his finger tips. His breath came quickly as he freed the package from the ground and tucked it under an arm. He would keep it out of the bag so that if it began to thaw, the blood from the meat wouldn't destroy his food and clothing.

Lakhoni looked up at the sky again. Everything was going according to his plan, except for the most important part! Where was the snow?

He threw a look down the path behind him. His trail was clear, easily seen by even a child.

But there was no going back. There was only east toward Lemalihah. East toward Alronna.

I hope.

Servant of the King Chapter 17

noreply@blogger.com (JaredNGarrett) — Fri, 14 May 2010 08:13:00 +0000

I've had to plug away at this, bit by bit over the last couple of days, in order to get it done, but here's chapter seventeen. Usually I slam out a chapter in one sitting, but time has been short.

Can I just say I love being a writer? Yes, I want to be successful and make good money to support my family with my passion, but there are wonderful moments where just telling a story and getting to know some neat characters are enough.

With no further ado (except to say that I think that every reader of this should share it with your friends today):

Chapter 17

His pulse pounded in his ears even as he consciously slowed his breathing. Weaving among bare-branched saplings and trees with their deep-green winter gowns borne down heavily by a cloak of snow, Lakhoni lengthened his stride. Snow was icy pinpricks on his ankles and calves, the flakes and chunks he was kicking up as he ran often landing on his legs. A flash of gratitude sparked in his heart for the winter boots Gimno had given him.

This was it. He had to make it this time, or he wouldn't get away.

He breathed deeply, questing for his heart in order to make it slow and get back under control even as he sprinted through the snow-laden forest. For a moment, he remembered that day outside the village, allowing the Dance of the Forest to run through him even as he ran desperately to warn the village of what he had seen.

The men. Painted and terrible. Covered in straps with weapons hanging all over. Hair in spikes and whirls that mimicked predators.

He had been coming back from the hunt, practicing his stealth.

He thought they hadn't detected him.

His head no longer throbbed, but the crown of it seemed to retain a memory of the initial blow.

Focus. This was his chance.

There: a break in the snow. So small it might not be detected if he hadn't been looking for it.

He stopped abruptly, sucking in a long, slow breath and trying to speed his recovery from the all out sprint. He hunched over, examining the divot in the snow. He quested around the area surrounding the track.

Another. Now that he had it, he could easily make out the pattern.

Deer track.

He had found it again, just when he had worried he had lost it.

He had to bring home a buck today. Had to prove himself for a final time in order to-

Home?

No. The cavern of the Separated was no home.

Lakhoni stood, taking a brief moment to inhale the forest in its winter slumber. Crisp air filled him, waking every sense.

Then he was off, slower this time so as not to lose the track. As he ran, he unlimbered the bow from off his back. It was already strung, so all he needed now was to nock an arrow. He felt he was getting closer, so he slowed to a walk. Eyes moving deliberately from the track to the forest ahead.

No, the cavern was not a home. Not like the village. In his village he had friends and a family who loved him because he was theirs and they were his. He had never doubted he had a place there.

In the cavern, in Gimno's circle, he had no place. He was borrowing a sleeping mat. He was building a debt to those people with every bite he took of meat and grain. There was no giving and taking with the sense of all is for all that existed in the village.

In the cavern, there was a sense of everything being measured. A sense that everyone's place was temporary.

And last night's conversation had confirmed this feeling.

"Does anyone ever leave?" Lakhoni had asked between bites. Corzon and Anor sat nearby, half facing him. "I mean, leave the Separated?"

Lakhoni crept through the snow. He was very close now. He paused a moment; he was downwind. Perfect.

"Leave?" Anor had spat. "And go where?"

"I don't know. Maybe they just want to live a different life."

Corzon had smiled around a drumstick. "And be separated from the Separated?"

Anor snorted. "That's stupid. There's nowhere else to go."

"Sure there is. I could go and live in my village. It's empty."

"No, dummy, you couldn't go live in your village." Anor tore a chunk of bread out of the small loaf he held. "Even if it is empty. It's dead."

Pain and anger flared in Lakhoni's chest.

"What Anor means," Corzon said, putting out a hand as if to ward Lakhoni off, "is that after you're officially one of the Separated, it's like your previous life is over." He smiled and swallowed. "This is life now."

"And nobody leaves because nobody can know where we are." Anor said.

"I don't understand," Lakhoni said.

"Pretty simple, dummy," Anor said. "Can't have people finding out where our hideaway is."

"What Anor means, again, is that Lemal would probably hunt us down," Corzon said. "The stories about the Living Dead are becoming more well-known. If he knew how to find us, he would destroy us."

"Why?"

"We pose a threat. We're strong. We're mean and we mean to kill him," Anor said, his smile marred by food sticking through his teeth.

"Really?" Lakhoni thought back to all of the talk of birthright.

"Of course," Corzon said. "He has no right to rule the People of Promise. Nor do the Usurpers have a right to the northlands. The true leader will come from the land of the Dead—from the land of the Living Dead." He paused for a beat. "That's us."

"So if Lemal found out where we were, he would send an army to destroy us?" Lakhoni asked.

"Right," Corzon said.

"And that's why nobody leaves," Anor said.

Lakhoni understood. There could be no danger of whoever left sharing the location of the cavern. So nobody was allowed to leave.

But he had to get away.

And I will get away, Lakhoni thought as he lowered into a crouch behind some bedraggled, leafless bushes. I'll pass this test and will be fully trusted. Then he could get away.

He stayed still for long minutes, his joints stiffening in the cold, despite breeches and fur he wore.

There. A gentle movement, like a mother's touch on her child.

The buck moved forward, its stride heavy yet somehow graceful. Lakhoni heard its hooves break through the crust at the top of the snow. The magnificent head lowered to the base of a tree. Soft noises as it pushed aside snow to get at winter moss reached Lakhoni's ears. He slowly and smoothly slid an arrow out of the quiver hanging from his belt.

Cupping the nock in his hands to muffle any sound he might make, Lakhoni set the arrow.

He fixed his eyes on the buck. Its antlers spread at least six hands wide. Moving entirely by feel, Lakhoni slid his left palm up to the grip on the bow's shaft, gently adjusting his hand until the grip sat comfortably in his palm.

The buck stepped forward as it dug for more moss. Its head was now partially obscured by the trunk of the tree. If he didn't hurry, the buck would move too far and he wouldn't be able to take the shot he wanted.

He breathed out, waited two heart beats, then breathed in slowly. Just behind and below the top of the shoulder, before the ribs. Too far back and the arrow would probably shatter on the ribs. Too far forward and the muscle of the shoulder would stop the arrow cold.

The buck stepped forward again.

Have to hurry!

No. Smooth breaths. He smoothly raised the bow, pulling back on the string until it was well behind his right ear. A breath in- he sighted down the point of the arrow, placing the sharpened stone point half a thumb length below the spot he was aiming for. The deer was close; he had to allow for lift in the arrow's flight path.

A breath out- he steadied himself.

A breath in- totally still, he focused on the string in his right fingers.

A breath out- release.

A puff of wind in his ear, a soft impact on his leather-wrapped left forearm.

He kept his eyes on the spot behind the deer's front leg. In a moment, the arrow sprouted from the area, a little below where he had been aiming. The buck sprang forward, grunting.

Lakhoni leapt to his feet, pulling another arrow from his quiver.

A second later, he replaced the second arrow as the buck fell after two or three steps.

He had done it.

Now he had to clean the carcass and haul it back to the cavern.

Lakhoni looked to the cold, white sky. To the east, a thickening could be detected in the clouds. They seemed lower, the shadows in them more pronounced. Snow was coming.

Maybe he would escape during the coming storm. He reminded himself to be grateful that he had never let slip to Gimno or any of the other Separated that he believed Alronna was alive. He was certain that if they knew of his belief, they would never stop watching him. But they thought his entire village and family had been destroyed. They had no reason to suspect that he might not be totally devoted to the Living Dead.

After all, he had passed the Grooming and in so doing had helped Gimno become a Consecrated. Through talking with Gimno in training, Lakhoni had learned only a little about what it meant to be one of the Consecrated of the Living Dead. There was to be a ritual sometime in the near future, during which the Separated would accept Gimno officially as a Consecrated. Until that time, Gimno lived mostly the same life he had before. After the ritual, Gimno had said, a Consecrated spends his days with the Bonaha, serving and helping with rituals and other important labor for the benefit of the Separated.

Gimno seemed to think of Lakhoni as the son he had not yet fathered with Vena. Lakhoni had been surprised, although he didn't understand why it had never occurred to him, to find that three of the young girls in Gimno's circle were his daughters.

Lakhoni knelt in the snow, his leather breeches shielding him only briefly from the wet and cold underneath him. Pulling out the steel dagger Gimno had given him a week or two previously, he slid it point first into the snow so that its handle stuck out as if he had murdered a giant snow creature.

He removed his tunic and, standing momentarily, hung it on a nearby branch. He didn't want to cover his good winter clothes in the blood of his kill.

As he set to cleaning the buck, Lakhoni ran over the list of supplies he would need if he wanted to escape in the coming snow storm.

He had already stashed some extra food in a small cavity in the wall of the hut he shared with Corzon and Anor. With the food were several spark stones to light fires with, along with an old but usable shirt that he had crumpled tightly and wedged into the cavity with a rock to disguise the stash.

These boots should work fine, but I need something to carry everything in and I probably need another shirt—or a cloak of some kind.

He didn't know how long it would take him to make it to Lemalihah. He knew that it was in the direction of the mountains that ran near the coast to the east. He had been told it was a ten day journey to the ocean, so he guessed that the city of the king would be at least a few days closer than that.

Need more food.

Not necessarily.

He glanced around as the thought came to him. He knew nobody was watching, but the instinct to make sure overrode his reason.

He didn't have to bring all of this meat back to the cavern. The buck was big enough that he could find a safe place to stash the fresh meat—probably in the snow to keep it fresh—out here and he could pick it up on his way. He was about a half day away from the cavern, so there was little chance that somebody else would find it.

And as far as he knew, this area did not have a problem with predators or scavengers, especially in the dead of winter.

Pleased with his idea, he set to his work with greater energy. He would have to work fast so that he could find his way back to the cavern before night fell completely.

The hide. He could clean the hide, roll the fresh meat in it, and bury it deeply. He could explain the absence of the hide by saying he had been so eager to show his kill to Gimno that he hadn't been careful with the cleaning.

And maybe he could stretch the hide over hot coals on one of his first nights away and then use it as a cloak.

There was more work to be done, but the burden did not weigh him down. Lakhoni glanced around at the stark forest of naked trees, their dark brown branches vivid against the backdrop of white on the ground and in the sky. Taking a deep breath, he realized that he felt lighter, farther from anger and frustration, than he had in many weeks.

Finally doing something, he thought. No more waiting.

He finished carefully removing the deer hide, forcing himself to focus on the task at hand and his prayers of thanks to the First Fathers.

As he began to scrape, a wave of giddiness washed through him. With a little more planning and care, this was going to work. He was going to get away. Soon.

And then I'll find you, Alronna. Nothing will stop me.

On Mother's Day

noreply@blogger.com (JaredNGarrett) — Mon, 10 May 2010 05:27:00 +0000

Today has been Mother's Day. The talks in Church focused on mothers and gospel living. Sister Simmons, one of the coolest ladies ever ( she might be 70+-- I don't know), gave a fiery talk about dedication to righteousness and truth. It's easy to love that woman.

I gave Annemarie an iPod for Mother's Day. This is our first foray into any kind of MP3 player. I was so eager to finally give it to her that I actually gave it to her yesterday. I had loaded about 180 songs into it before I gave it to her. She loves it.

Then I was the one who slept in today. My wife is truly remarkable. I spent all day Saturday on my feet, doing work and other stuff around here and when I hit the sack I slept like the dead. Truth is, I've been sleeping very heavily these days. Probably a combination of being under the weather but very pressed for time to get a lot of stuff done.

But I felt bad when I woke up at 9 or so and she was up and was feeding the kids. I had wanted to do that-- didn't even hear my alarm.

Anyway, I hope I made up for it over the rest of the day. Ask her if you want to know if I succeeded.

Hey, the chicken noodle soup I made for dinner- along with breadsticks- was really good.

But now I've been checking Facebook and Twitter and have been seeing all of the updates that say things like, "Thanks Mom" and "Mom, you're the best," and "I wouldn't be me without you Mom." And other very sincere and lovely sentiments.

I don't want to turn this issue into an attention grab. It's not an issue. And I am not seeking pity or sympathy. I think I just need to get something off my chest.

I am so jealous of people who can write those things sometimes. I fight it and pray to get rid of it and think I'm there and then it happens again. Envy and unrealistic and impossible wishes fill me.

A mom.

I see my kids with their mom. She's amazing. They can be clamoring- one on top of the other and shouting to be heard over their own clamor- for her attention and she is able to get things done and get people chilled. Sure, she comes down on them hard sometimes-- they deserve it.

But my kids, you see. They have this relationship with their mom that-- it's just a part of them. It's all they've known. They absolutely know-- like they know the sun rises-- that mom is there for them. Mom loves them. Mom lives to keep them healthy, happy and learning. Mom makes breakfast. Mom knows where things are. Mom knows them and listens to them. Mom teaches. Mom plays with them.

Mom sits in the driveway with #5 and just enjoys him and lets him explore and live and learn and love and be beautiful.

I look at Annemarie and we talk about things and I sometimes get a glimpse of something extraordinary and almost supernatural. The love she has for these critters is something of legend, something of mystery and incredibly magnificent. She would deny this and set down a laundry list of her faults.

But that list would be brief and limited. The list of what she has done for our family and the moments she lives for when her love is the. only. light. and. comfort. that will do for these kids are infinite. I can hug, clean wounds and talk things out. Her hugs and sweet words, her ability to listen and feel their pain and somehow in doing that reduce that pain is... There's no other way to say it. It clearly comes from the Divine and Annemarie embodies it so beautifully.

And my kids are blessed with this great mom who has made the decision to devote herself to them and this family. There's no question. No doubt. No chance of it ever changing.

I tell Annemarie that #1 is over halfway to the point that he will head out of the house. I say it happily. She feels a tight, painful urgency to enjoy him and love him.

I am so envious of my kids.

I can honestly say, "Mom, without you, I would not be where I am." Except I never called my mother anything but her first name. And she wasn't there. She did clean some of my wounds when I was very little. She made me soak a finger I had slashed in a cup of hydrogen peroxide every morning. In lieu of stitches, she put a very, very tight band-aid on it.

But by the time I was eight, my contact with her consisted of phone calls every couple of months, a birthday and a Christmas gift and the occasional visit.

It wasn't divorce. It was something else. Cult, kibbutz, other priorities-- call it what you will.

She died when I was about 25-- about 10-11 years ago. I hugged her goodbye.

I knew she was my mom. I was her son.

But I had never enjoyed a relationship with her that in any way approximates or resembles what my kids enjoy. I actually have no idea what it is supposed to feel like to love your mom and know she loves you and would do anything for you. My mom wasn't like that at all. It feels weird to refer to her as 'mom.'

I don't think she was a mother. She had three sons but I am not sure if she ever really grasped motherhood.

But again, I don't know.

I know I loved her. I didn't know her, understand her, get her reasons for the choices she had made her entire adult life. But I felt love for her. Probably biological in part and probably because I knew I was supposed to.

In her final years, we were a little closer. I was more of an adult and I was learning about family. But we were never very close.

I know I am in part to blame for that. I never felt an urgent need to connect-- and I should have.

Again, I just don't know what that relationship can or should feel like. It's like a person who has been deaf from birth. Sound is a foreign thing-- a completely unexperienced thing-- a thing that you never really have any way of understanding because it's never been part of your experience.

So maybe this is why I am so often stupefied by how much Annemarie is a mom and how much she can take and how fierce is her love for our critters.

And the final thing is I don't get how my mother could possibly allow herself to miss out on being a mom to us brothers for so long. Talking with my kids. Getting to know them. Seeing my sweet, beautiful #2 after he has done a face plant off his bike onto unforgiving asphalt. It fills me with joy unspeakable and inexplicable. It's a joy from another place- an external source that seems to be filled with joy unending that is ripe for the sipping as I see and love my children and wife.

How could a person choose to just miss out on that?

I held my #5-- he's almost 2-- today while I comforted #2 after his fall. My #5 fell asleep on my shoulder, leaving a damp patch of drool on me.

I want to weep with the feeling of great satisfaction and fulfillment that gave me. I feel it now.

I pray to my Father in Heaven that I will soon be filled with greater forgiveness and greater satisfaction in the knowledge that He- my true and eternal parent- has never left my side. Has always been there for me, even when no others were. I don't want the joy I have with my family to be tainted by the feeling of a lack from my childhood.

I do wish I could say my mother had raised me and I had learned so much from her.

Although I guess I can. Her absence- physical and emotional- informs my life as a husband and father- telling me to never be absent and to always cherish. I was raised without a relationship that others take for granted, and I know I never will take for granted the relationship I have with my wife and kids.

I learned plenty from her. Non-lessons and opposites to be sure- but I learned anyway.

Thanks Mom. I know you're with our Father. I believe you are able to see me and my family at times. I pray your earthly choices to miss out on so much of family don't haunt you or taint your joy at being with so much of our family- even your last husband whom I know you loved very much.

I do love you, Magdalen. I always will. I love that we will be together in the eternities. I am confident that we will have the time to forge the relationship we both avoided in life.

Servant of the King Chapter 16

noreply@blogger.com (JaredNGarrett) — Thu, 29 Apr 2010 23:49:00 +0000

Wow. Two days: two chapters.

You, dear readers, are either very lucky or you enjoy torture.

Here you go. Total word count now is 32,000.

Chapter 16

Ree padded down the granite stairs, her eyes fixed fast on the light streaming through the doorway at the bottom. As she descended the gloomy staircase, she extended both hands to the side so that her fingers were lightly brushing the walls. Her father had told her she should use the main staircase, but sometimes she liked to take this shortcut to the royal kitchen. With snow on the ground and the air outside cold enough to freeze a flying bird's feathers, she was looking forward to the ever-present heat of the kitchen. It was so cold that she could feel the chilly stone beneath her feet even with her leather shoes on.

As she approached the doorway, the voice of Agmoda, the head cook, echoed up to her ears.

"Hush now, Lina. That's quite enough out of you."

A voice that Ree guessed must belong to Lina, responded. "I'm sorry mistress. It's just my brother—he's out of his mind with worry."

"We all know that Mastopo is always out of his mind. If his son's gone missing, it's probably because of a girl," Agmoda chided, her usually high-pitched voice muffled.

Ree stopped, catching herself by leaning on the wall. Who's Lina? And Mastopo? Her brother?

"But little Fim is only in his tenth year," Lina said. She sounded as if she had been crying.

"I said that's enough." Agmoda's voice hinted at punishments if Lina's complaining continued.

I wonder what's going on, Ree thought.

"Yes, Mistress," Lina said as the sound of something heavy and dense hitting a wood table commenced.

Ree realized that if somebody left the kitchen to climb the servants' stairs, she would be discovered. She descended the final steps, coughing loudly as she hit the landing and passed through the doorway.

The warmth of the multiple hearths in the long kitchen enveloped her before she had taken two steps. An aroma of baking bread filled the room, the warm sensation contrasting with the cold stones under her feet.

"Mistress Ree," Agmoda said, not missing a beat as she violently kneaded a huge ball of bread dough. She lifted the dough high, then slammed it down to the table with a loud thump. "You know your father doesn't want you in here."

"I know Aggi- Agmoda," Ree said, trying to hold back her smile. It never failed. She had known Agmoda her entire life and had even played in the kitchen as a little girl. The cook had been trying to get Ree to stop calling her Aggie for what seemed like years.

"Then you'd best be moving along," Agmoda said, her voice stern but the laughter in her eyes belying the feigned anger.

Ree approached the heavy wood table Agmoda was working on. She leaned her elbows on the table and tried to keep her search casual. At least ten other women were working in the kitchen, all of them wearing the same kind of brown dress and rough apron. Which one is Lina?

The bread dough slammed onto the table again, making Ree's elbows twitch involuntarily. She glanced at Agmoda. The cook's thin frame seemed too small to be able to wrestle the huge ball of dough she was now breaking into smaller wads. Not for the first time, Ree wondered how Agmoda had stayed so thin while spending most of her life working in a kitchen. "Can't I have some fresh bread before I go? And an apple for Titan?"

Ree cast her eyes about the kitchen again.

"Of course," Agmoda said. "Doba! Bring a loaf and an apple!" Agmoda's voice cut through the hubbub of the kitchen like a sharp knife through chicken meat.

Lina had sounded like she was crying, Ree thought. She scoured the faces in the room. One particularly small woman, a girl really—she couldn't have been much older than Ree—turned and Ree got a look at her face. Red-rimmed eyes. That had to be Lina.

"Looking for something, Mistress?"

Ree turned at Agmoda's question, pushing a smile onto her face. "Just wondering where you're hiding tonight's dessert cakes."

"You will never know," Agmoda said, smiling with mischief.

This was the Agmoda that Ree loved. Behind her stern demeanor and the rigidly organized kitchen staff, Agmoda loved to play word games and talk about almost anything. It's terrible, but Aggie's my only real friend here. Ree's smile fell at the thought.

"What's wrong?" Agmoda asked.

"Nothing," Ree said.

"Is it another nightmare?"

Ree wished she hadn't shared the nightmare she'd had a few weeks ago. Agmoda seemed to put a lot of stock in such things and had spent what seemed like forever trying to interpret its 'symbols.' Ree just wanted to let the images fade.

She hadn't told Agmoda about Shule. She worried that Agmoda would worry and talk to her father about it.

"No. It's nothing." Ree glanced around, trying to catch sight of Lina again. Maybe I can find a way to talk to her sometime and find out what happened to the boy she was talking about. Lina had disappeared. She was probably carrying food to the dining table.

A large woman, her apron bursting around her midriff, approached with a loaf of bread in one hand and an apple in the other.

Agmoda gave Ree a look, then turned back to the dough balls she had made. She began to form them into flat discs. "Set them on the table, Doba."

"Yes, Mistress," the large woman said. She breathed loudly as she turned and made her way back to the other end of the kitchen.

"And you, Mistress Ree," Agmoda said, indicating the bread and apple, "are better off eating the apple too. Give your old horse a handful of oats and that'll be fine. You need more than bread for your breakfast."

"My old horse?" Ree asked, feigning offense. "Titan is not just an old horse. He's a nobly bred warhorse with more battles under his saddle than any man living today. He probably killed a thousand Usurpers himself."

"You mean he was a warhorse. Now he's a doddering nag."

"A nag? Doddering? Are you sure you're talking about my horse?" Ree grinned as she snatched up her bread and apple.

Agmoda offered a quick smile, her eyes twinkling. "Actually I was talking about you by the time you wed if you don't learn to brush that hair of yours!"

Ree flounced away. "I don't want to get married anyway! I just want to work in a kitchen my whole life." She took a bite from the still-warm loaf as she turned and used her foot to push open the door that led outside. A blast of cold air seemed to freeze her front side even as her back was still enjoying the heat of the kitchen.

She sucked in a breath and forced herself all the way through the doorway. She crossed the courtyard quickly, the frozen mud feeling rough and sharp beneath her feet. I should have brought my shawl. Knowing that the stable would be warm from all the horses and cows in there, she hurried faster, tucking her food close to her chest.

She shouldered the stable door open and ducked into the low, stone building. No torches burned, but there were enough cracks around beams and tiles in the ceiling that she could see as well as she needed. The straw underfoot felt much more comfortable then the rough ground outside, and the smell of horse and cow filled her with a sense of comfort and warmth, despite still being able to see her breath.

Ree strode forward, taking another bite of the bread—the crust of which was now cold. The short entryway ended at a long passage that stretched a long way to the left and right. The stable held over a hundred horses and half as many cows, and it was one of her favorite places to spend time. She could spend hours running her hands on horses' noses and brushing them down.

The cows she could do without. She was glad she had never had to milk one; she had seen servants milking them and the things just seemed smelly and clumsy. Once she had seen a cow casually knock over a servant then put its hoof in a bucket of fresh milk. The servant had been lashed and sent back to milk the cow properly.

Turning left, Ree walked down the passage made of stall doors that now stood closed. After a couple of minutes walking, she arrived at the section where retired warhorses lived. Approaching Titan's stall, she whistled softly and called him. "Titan. Dear Titan?"

A whicker floated above the stalls.

"I've got something for you."

She stopped in front of one of the last stalls on the left. The head of a massive horse, its neck and chest a deep chestnut, quested out. Titan blew loudly through his nose.

"You can smell this, can't you?" She tore a bite out of her bread and tucked it under one arm. Holding the apple tightly, she whacked it sharply on the edge of the stall door. Titan's head bobbed at the noise. His long-lashed eyes blinked and he tossed his head again. "It's okay, I just forgot my knife." Now, using both hands, she dug her fingers into the apple and broke it in half. "There."

Ree offered one of the halves to Titan. The horse sniffed her hand, his soft lips brushing her fingers. The apple disappeared.

"You're so greedy," Ree said, unlatching the stall door and slipping inside.

She wrapped her arms around the huge horse's neck. "But you're great. You don't give me rules. And you don't tell me that I should be preparing to get married already."

She handed over the rest of the apple. "Married," she muttered, chewing on bread and reaching for the stiff brush hanging above the stall.

Munching on her breakfast, Ree held the bread with one hand and brushed with the other. Her mind went back to the conversation she had overheard. That sounds awful. Lina's little nephew going missing. She wondered if Lina would be willing to talk to her about it. But why should I bother her about it? It's none of my business.

She snorted. Titan snorted back. "Exactly." She pressed herself up to the warm horse, his muscular chest and forelegs firm and steady against her. "When have I ever minded my own business?"

Chapter 15 of Servant of the King (short one)

noreply@blogger.com (JaredNGarrett) — Thu, 29 Apr 2010 04:03:00 +0000

Chapter 15

Soft popping and hissing emanated from the hot coals. He felt the heat from them faintly on his knees and shins. Vena approached the fire, kneeling in front of it and using a small wooden paddle to arrange a space for the bread stone which sat just outside the fire pit. After a short time, she placed the stone into the coals and put the paddle down.

Turning, she moved toward Lakhoni. "Ready for some more ointment?"

Lakhoni met her eyes. "Yes." The sachet he had received in the Bonaha's hut the previous day had lost its potency. His lips throbbed in time to the beat of his heart.

"How are your knees and hands?"

He heard concern in her voice. He remembered her face covered in innocent blood. How could a person seem to be made up of two completely different people? Gimno's touch had been so gentle in treating Lakhoni's injuries, but then right after, back in the Bonaha's home, Gimno had undergone the process of becoming a halkeen. Which meant that he had murdered countless people and would now help the Bonaha—help the Bonaha do what? Sacrifice innocent children? Groom young warriors? What else did the Consecrated do? Apparently they still hunted, since Gimno had departed with the other men this morning, leaving Lakhoni behind to recover from his Grooming.

Lakhoni forced the thought out of his mind. "They're not terrible. I think they will be better in a few days."

Nodding, Vena went into her hut. Noises followed and soon she emerged with a small cloth packet. It glistened in her hand. "Take this. When Corzon returns from the hunt, we will have him treat you also."

Lakhoni nodded. And will Corzon, or Anor, or any of the others earn a tattoo today? The thought of the young boy, slaughtered, his blood used to paint the people of the Separated, sat heavily in him. Dropping his gaze to the glowing coals, he clenched his jaw at the anger that threatened to boil from his stomach to his heart. Frustration from being powerless to stop the boy's murder and powerless to run and find Alronna built in him again. It was as if the world was conspiring to make his family's death go unpunished and to let Alronna suffer at the hands of Lemal's dogs. He felt as if he could shatter the stone under him with one slam of his fist.

He took a deep breath. No. He had to focus on getting away. There would be time for rage later.

Center. Breathe.

What was the point of the torture he had just undergone? He knew that to the Separated it was important, but Lakhoni just felt abused. He didn't feel purified. He wondered where the Separated had come up with their rituals and beliefs. How could the sacrifice of a young boy do them any good? And, thinking about it, how did destroying your knees, hands and mouth make you a good warrior? Being able to stand pain makes sense, but this was just stupid. Almost deliberately cruel.

He recalled getting a glimpse of hunger in the Bonaha's eyes as he described the ritual of grooming and purifying.

And how did such a small man gain control over all of these people?

Lakhoni considered what he knew about the beliefs of the Separated. They felt like they had been robbed or mistreated by King Lemal, for one thing. He guessed that many of them were survivors of attacks on their home villages. This would be a good reason to dislike King Lemal. But he had gathered that a lot of the people in the community had left Lemal's people by choice. Why would they do that? Lakhoni tried to guess at what would make people do such a thing, but his mind was still a little fuzzy from pain.

The Separated also thought they were supposed to reclaim some kind of birthright. He knew that the people of Lemal hated the Usurpers because of those younger brothers stealing the right to rule from the older brothers. Was this the birthright the Bonaha had talked about? He tried to remember what the man had said at the sacrifice of the little boy. Something about a prophesied leader coming from shadow. The leader would lead the Separated back into the light. And then something about an inheritance.

Was the inheritance the birthright that the Bonaha had talked about?

Was the Bonaha supposed to be that leader?

What was the point of the Consecrated?

Lakhoni sat on the stone ground, eyes focused on nothing, the cooling ointment tasting fresh and clean on his lips. He didn't know how long he sat there, but as the hunters began appearing in the circles, people's voices raised in greeting, a thought struck him. It doesn't matter. I'll heal. I'll learn and grow strong. I'll get out of here and find Alronna. A bright spark of anger warmed his soul. And justice will be met.

Corzon appeared in the circle, his incredible nose leading the way. Anor followed. They each carried a pair of rabbits. Anor also held one end of a long pole on which a cleaned buck hung by its legs. Gimno, body a deep red, held the other end. The tall man's tattoos could still be seen, but all through the red dye that covered his body now.

After a few minutes while women directed men in the arranging of the meat, Corzon approached Lakhoni. "Let me take a look."

Lakhoni nodded, lowering his hands.

"Open a little," Corzon said.

He felt as if his lips would split, but Lakhoni carefully parted them.

Corzon hummed to himself quietly as he examined Lakhoni. He removed the bandages on Lakhoni's hands and knees as well.

"Healing well. A couple more days and you'll be able to hunt again."

Lakhoni grunted in acknowledgement. And soon I'll get away from you people.

"Not that we'll be hunting for much longer. The season is turning. We could smell snow today," Corzon said.

Snow. Winter was coming fast. Would he have to wait until spring to get away?

The image of soft, white flakes flashed behind his eyes.

No. Winter would be perfect. He could leave on a day when the snow was falling. If he timed it well, the snow would cover his tracks. Then the Separated wouldn't be able to track him. And if they tried in spring, all sign of his passing should be gone by then.

He had to heal and learn fast. And he would turn that training against the Separated so that he could get away and finally search for Alronna. He would escape to Lemalihah, find the people who destroyed his village and family, and he would satisfy the justice that his heart craved.

Turn the training against them. They had taken him in, healed him and fed him. Will this be a betrayal? The question hung in his heart as Corzon bandaged his hands with soft leather.

Did it matter? How could leaving a people who murdered innocents and enjoyed cruelty be bad? Even if it was a betrayal, did it matter, really?

He pushed the thought away. It didn't matter. If he had to lie to get away and betray the training and trust of the Separated—he would do it.

He had no choice.

Chapter 14 of Servant of the King

noreply@blogger.com (JaredNGarrett) — Wed, 07 Apr 2010 22:38:00 +0000

Longest chapter yet. Nearly 4500 words.

Chapter 14

Flaming torches flickered in the hut's interior, lighting brightly the home of the spiritual leader of the Separated. Lakhoni wondered that had no idea how he should address this man. He had never heard Gimno, Corzon or Anor—or any of the other Separated for that matter—ever make mention of the man. A heavy, almost wet aroma that made his nostrils tingle filled the house. It smelled like nothing he had ever experienced. It was spicy, like one of the ointments Salno had used to clean wounds, but it also felt cool, like a mountain breeze. But there was also an undercurrent of meat that had been boiled too long.

Lakhoni glanced around. The walls of the hut were round, curving out and back to Lakhoni's right and left. He followed Gimno, who followed the red man, deeper into the hut, skirting small tables and stoned covered in the hides of animals of all kinds. A badger skin glittered, looking almost wet, from the flat, round stone it was draped on. Nearby was another, smaller stone with a beaver hide. On the beaver hide were gathered a variety of shining stones.

The curving walls seemed like they should bowing under the weight of the multitude of items hanging from them. Hundreds of bone and wooden pegs had been driven into those stone walls, and hanging from those pegs were more hides and skins along with weapons, raiment, instruments and things that Lakhoni could not identify. One long item that sat on two pegs caught his eye. In the bright light provided by what must have been more than twenty torches, the thing's handle looked to be made of white, polished stone. The base of the handle was wrapped tightly in deep, black leather and the handle—or haft—extended the length of Lakhoni's arm, ending in an oddly shaped head. The head was a combination of a hatchet on one side, and a long, wickedly serrated knife on the other side. But a jagged spike also extended from the head, making the total length of the thing almost as long as one of Gimno's legs.

And the head was made entirely of metal that had been tightly seated on the bone haft.

Lakhoni hurried to catch up to Gimno, then realized that somehow this hut was bigger than he had thought. From the outside, it was clear this was the largest hut in the cavern. But now, as Lakhoni took the time to look, he realized that the hut that could be seen outside was just the beginning. He had assumed that the back wall of the hut would be the wall of the cavern, but it was now clear that the hut had been built to take advantage of a cave that branched off from the main cavern.

More than a cave, Lakhoni realized as they passed a small cavern to their left. A series of caves.

The entire complex was filled with the aroma that had greeted them when they entered. As they walked, they passed more caves, some with hides stretched over wood planks for doors and some open. Lakhoni snuck a glance into one of the open caves, but even as he saw piles glittering things, he heard Gimno's harsh, quiet whisper.

"Cub! Respect this place."

Lakhoni met the tall man's eyes, having no trouble seeing their grim expression in the still-brightly lit cavern. Nodding, Lakhoni lengthened his stride, wondering how long this journey would take. Even as the thought departed, they came to a ladder. The red man stood to the side of the ladder and gestured for Gimno to ascend. Without a sound, Gimno flowed up the ladder, Lakhoni following.

At the top, Lakhoni stopped in total stupefaction. The ladder led to a large, mostly round cavern. But it wasn't the size or shape of the cavern that stunned him. The cavern floor was completely covered with luxurious animal hides, as were the walls. A huge table dominated the room. It seemed to have been cut from one massive tree. The top was flat, while the bottom appeared to be the rounded trunk of the original tree. Standing on many thick legs, the table had been polished to gleam wetly in the light of torches and a fire that blazed in what looked like a large hearth on the far side of the room. Chairs of wood, made comfortable with soft hides, surrounded the table. There had to be at least twenty chairs, one of which was larger and more ornate than the others. This one had been turned to face the hearth.

Hoping his surprise hadn't been noticed, Lakhoni pushed himself off the ladder into the room and stood next to Gimno, the soft hides under his feet a surprisingly warm and pleasant sensation.

"Bonaha," Gimno said, respect in his voice.

"Gimno, my boy." The voice seemed to flow, slick and smooth, like oil from the ornate chair. Nothing else stirred.

"The cub," Gimno said.

"Of course," said the voice. Now Lakhoni saw movement. A small form—Lakhoni recognized its size from the sacrifice of the boy—separated itself from the chair. The figure's hair no longer stood on end, but Lakhoni felt sure that this was the same man that had murdered the young boy.

The man stepped toward Gimno and Lakhoni, a bright smile on his face. "This is the cub you've spoken of?"

"Yes, Bonaha."

The man, Lakhoni couldn't tell if Bonaha was a title or name, squinted and seemed to examine Lakhoni for several long minutes. He faced Gimno, looking up at the tall man.

"And you have brought him for his grooming?"

Gimno nodded. "Yes, Bonaha." Lakhoni heard the respect and adoration in Gimno's voice. It seemed strange for such a tall, imposing man to give such great respect to this small man.

"Well, cub," the man said. "I am Bonaha Comnor. Bonaha means 'Teacher' in the language of our First Fathers and Comnor is my name." The small man raised a hand to Lakhoni's face. His palm felt soft and moist on Lakhoni's cheek. It smelled of flowers. "You will call me Bonaha."

Lakhoni nodded, trying not to squirm under the uncomfortable touch. He forced the images of this same hand gripping a shiny dagger out of his mind.

"Today you will be groomed," the Bonaha said. "Do you understand what that means?"

Lakhoni shook his head. He knew he should say something, but the revulsion in his heart seemed to be choking him. I can't show him. He'll kill me if I do. He forced himself to swallow past the tightness in his throat.

"What?" the Bonaha said, laughter in his voice. "Can you not speak?" The moist hand slapped Lakhoni gently. "Come on boy, you need not fear me."

"Show some respect, cub!" Gimno said, nudging Lakhoni.

"Yes," Lakhoni said.

"Yes what?" the Bonaha asked.

"I can speak."

The small man gave a satisfied nod, his hand sliding down Lakhoni's cheek, onto his neck and then stroking down Lakhoni's arm. Lakhoni forced the need to shudder deep inside himself.

"And do you understand what it is to be groomed by the Bonaha of the Separated?" the man's dark eyes seemed to flash with a wet hunger.

Lakhoni shook his head. "No."

"With respect, cub!"

"Leave it, Gimno," the Bonaha said, patience dripping from his voice. He turned back to Lakhoni and smiled. "It is proper to affix 'Bonaha' to what you say to me."

Swallowing again, willing his heart to slow, Lakhoni said, "Yes, Bonaha." He tried to understand the fear that filled him with every word Bonaha Comnor spoke. The man was small, nearly the same size as Alronna. His voice was soft and kind and he smiled almost constantly. His touch was light and affectionate.

But something in the man's eyes terrified Lakhoni. He frantically tried to find somewhere else to look, but the Bonaha seemed to have trapped his gaze as effectively as a barbed hook would catch a fish.

"Now, being groomed by the Bonaha of the Separated is an important step in your journey," the Bonaha said, turning and stepping back toward his chair. "Through this process, you show your strength and determination to join with us in our divinely appointed mission."

After a long pause, Lakhoni realized he was expected to respond. "Yes, Bonaha."

"How much has Gimno explained of what you will son experience, boy?" The Bonaha turned and walked back toward the crackling fire.

At the same time that he spoke, Lakhoni realized that there must be some kind of chimney that extended from this cave to the outside world. He watched the Bonaha's back as the small man lifted his left hand toward the cave entrance. "Nothing… Bonaha."

It seemed the Bonaha's gesture had been a signal to a man Lakhoni hadn't even seen yet. It was another tall red man who had been standing completely still in the shadows at the end of the cave furthest from the fire. This man folded into a deep bow, then, looking over the edge of the cave floor, snapped once.

"That is fine," the Bonaha said, standing just inside the circle of light cast by the fire. "This grooming takes place sometime around the completion of your fourteenth year—but can change depending on your readiness."

Taking long strides, the red man moved toward the fire, skirting the huge table and passing in front of Lakhoni.

A moment after the man passed him, Lakhoni caught a strong smell of sweat, blood and animal musk.

"Gimno has decided you are ready." The Bonaha turned his gaze on Lakhoni. In the bright glare of the fire, Lakhoni thought he could see the small man's eyes fill with a frightening intensity. "Not that it matters, but what is your age, boy?"

"In the spring I'll have finished my sixteenth year." A memory of the cakes and festivities that happened in his village during that season of birth celebrations flashed into his mind.

"So you are a little old, but that is fine."

A tall shape appeared at the top of the ladder and immediately crossed the room, followed by another of the red men. These two, with the man who had called them, rolled the soft hide on the floor near the hearth back, exposing rough stone.

"My halkeens will assist in this ceremony."

Hearing the strange word, Lakhoni looked back at the Bonaha. The small man must have detected Lakhoni's lack of understanding. "Surely Gimno has told you of these men. They are the Consecrated. Halkeen is the word for 'consecrated' in the language of our First Fathers."

Glancing about, the Bonaha gestured toward the fire. "Now come."

Lakhoni stepped forward, unsure of how close he should move.

"Gimno, you will purify."

Lakhoni felt Gimno's familiar presence to his right as the man moved forward. "Yes, Bonaha," Gimno said. He set his hand on Lakhoni's shoulder and Lakhoni, despite himself, felt a slight comfort steal over him at the well-known feeling of Gimno's rough, strong hand.

Realizing that something he had never seen or experienced was about to happen, Lakhoni berated himself for not paying better attention. He looked closely at the preparations the halkeen were making. One stood near the fire with a long stick of some kind, with which the man was poking at the fire, spreading embers and coals. He seemed to be looking for something.

Another man stood nearer the table and a rasping sound filled the large room as this man began to sharpen a long, slightly curved knife. With a second glance, Lakhoni saw that the curved knife was made of metal. So much metal! Where do they get it all?

The third man had just finished brushing a bundle of dried grass over the space that the rolled up hide had been covering. Now he slipped a soft-looking pouch off a short peg in the wall near the hearth. Crouching down, the Consecrated shook out a pile of jagged bits. By the sound of them on the stone floor, Lakhoni guessed they were rocks and realized they must be obsidian by the way they shone and glinted in the firelight.

"Now, Gimno, take your place at the fire," the Bonaha said.

Gimno took two long strides and took the place of the man who had been prodding the fire. This Consecrated handed his stick to Gimno and moved toward the peg that had been holding the obsidian bits. He pulled a rod of some kind off another peg, where it had been looped with the small leather strip on its end.

"Boy, what is your name?"

Lakhoni tore his eyes away from what looked like sharp thorns on the rod in the Consecrated's hands. "Lakhoni."

"Lakhoni," the Bonaha intoned. "You wish to join the Separated. The Living Dead. Those who will reclaim the Birthright."

The long pause made Lakhoni glance around, wondering if he was to say something. He saw Gimno staring intently at him. Gimno nodded deliberately.

"Yes, Bonaha," Lakhoni said. First Fathers, please help me hide this lie. And please forgive me for it! He didn't know if the Fathers' teachings allowed for necessary lies, but Lakhoni saw no other way.

The Bonaha nodded gravely. "And you willing do this Trial of the Gate?"

"Yes, Bonaha." Lakhoni tried not to think too much about what he was getting into. The wickedly barbed rod continued to draw his gaze. He wanted to slow things down so he could think this through. He looked at the barbed rod, the obsidian chips and Gimno standing at the hearth. What was this Trial of the Gate? Panic began to flutter in his chest.

"This is a test of your strength of character, your determination, and your will," the Bonaha said. "Your knees will rest upon the obsidian. You must be still in the face of that discomfort; showing your ability to stay and fight when all is pain. If you flee this, you will be known as a coward. Cowards are not warriors."

One of the Consecrated appeared behind Lakhoni and gestured for Lakhoni to move to the pile of obsidian.

"You will grip the thorny rod," the Bonaha said. Lakhoni felt a burst of laughter rise in him at the funny-sounding name. He knew that if he gave in to the panic and ran, he would likely be killed. And if he failed this, he guessed he would be very restricted in his movements.

"And you must hold it tightly to prove your determination to fight alongside the Separated, even when it is painful and difficult," the Bonaha said.

The Consecrated who held the rod handed it to Lakhoni. Lakhoni held it carefully at its ends, waiting for whatever signal he assumed would be given. He tried to keep his breathing even, shouted mentally at his heart to slow. He could do this. Gimno must have done it. Every warrior in the Separated must have done it.

He could do this.

"You will be purified with each stroke of the grooming blade. During the grooming, you must remain completely still—demonstrating your will to overcome all difficulty, pain and struggle in the battle to reclaim the Birthright."

"Remember Lakhoni," the Bonaha's voice became soft, intimate. Lakhoni met his gaze. "You must not move. If you do, the grooming blade will cut you, and you will be scarred. A warrior must not have a scarred scalp."

Lakhoni felt as if he could almost believe the Bonaha was concerned about him, but the glittering hunger in the small man's eyes belied that. He glanced down at the obsidian. That shouldn't be too bad. The thorns on the rod looked to be somewhat barbed. If he could hold it just so, he might be able to avoid jabbing them into his hands.

"Now kneel, Lakhoni."

Clenching his jaw tightly, Lakhoni lowered his knees to the pile of obsidian chips. He let out a breath as his weight came fully down. He flinched at the sharp pain that greeted his knees. No, I can't move or jerk. I can't be scarred. He took a deep breath and raised his head, hoping that by not looking at his knees he could put the building pain out of his mind.

It felt like some creature with barbed talons had grabbed him by the knees and was now pulling him downward. He had to fight the instinct to get to his feet and escape the pain.

"Grip the rod tightly. Prove your will to the Great Spirit."

Lakhoni tentatively wrapped his hands around the rod and squeezed. Pinpricks filled his palms, but it wasn't anywhere near as bad as the obsidian.

"Tighter."

He realized he had closed his eyes, so he opened them. He saw that a Consecrated was kneeling next to him, his hand on one end of the rod Lakhoni held. Lakhoni followed the Bonaha's command and tightened his grip. The pinpricks transformed into small, razor sharp knives slicing his hands open.

"Tighter, boy." The Bonaha's voice penetrated the pain filling him.

Lakhoni realized his breath was coming in short, quick bursts. At least he wasn't gasping, but he felt moisture at the edges of his eyes. Tighter? I can't do this.

He took a breath, trying to make it smooth and to calm his panicking heart.

He wanted to stand. He wanted to throw the poorly named thorny rod into the fire and fling himself to his feet and run away from these people. He wanted to be with his family again. He wanted to hear Sana's singing, his father's kind voice. He wanted to play at hunting with Alronna and talk dreams with Salno.

Alronna. She was out there. Alive.

Put the pain away. Lakhoni felt the command come from deep inside; deeper than the pain and deeper than fear.

He took a breath as slowly as he could. Gritting his teeth, he imagined that the thorny rod was a barbed branch that held Alronna over a tall cliff's edge. He had to hold it so she wouldn't fall.

Lakhoni tightened his grip. Hundreds and thousands of small knives sliced his palm to the bone. His jaw trembled with the pain of holding it closed to keep from crying out. His knees felt as if they were being chewed on by a jaguar.

"It is well," the Bonaha said.

He had closed his eyes again, without meaning to. Lakhoni forced his eyes open, feeling a tremble pass through him. No. He had to be still. Being a warrior meant more freedom.

"We will begin the grooming and purifying."

Lakhoni carefully looked over to the Bonaha, who held the curved knife before him. As the Bonaha moved forward to stand to Lakhoni's left, a band of orange light slid from the hilt to the tip. Lakhoni fought down the urge to throw himself backward, away from the jagged obsidian tearing into him.

"Gimno, come."

Gimno nodded, poking his stick into the fire. He came away with a small, glowing coal whose heat shimmered across its surface in waves. Deep in his mind, past the wall of agony, Lakhoni realized the stick was actually a set of tongs. Gimno stood before Lakhoni, the glowing ember darkening into ash where the tongs gripped it.

Purified with each stroke.

Understanding cut through the haze gripping his mind. Gimno's going to' purify' some part of me with that.

"You must not move," the Bonaha said. "Be the victor. Do not allow the pain to corrupt you. Rather, let it purify." The Bonaha let out a slow, even breath. "Or you will be called coward and will spend your days doing the work of those who cannot fight for truth."

This was too much. No human could suffer this without moving.

But Anor was a warrior… and Lakhoni had never seen any scars on his head. Gimno's head was covered in smooth, unbroken tattoos.

Somehow he had to do this.

Before he could think or take another breath, he felt the cold edge of the Bonaha's blade on the back of his neck. Gimno raised the coal until it was a foot length in front of Lakhoni's mouth.

My mouth? He had to focus, put the fear away. He had to control the pain.

The pressure on the back of his neck increased.

No, wait-

He sucked in a breath as the blade scraped up the back of his neck, up to his head. No added pain. Not that Lakhoni noticed anyway. He tried to put the pain away as the glow of the coal moved forward, but it was too fast-

Bright, freezing pain exploded on his lips. It instantly filled his mouth and triggered a pounding headache. Lakhoni instinctively jerked back, but before the movement grew, he clamped his jaws tightly and planted his rear-end on the backs of his legs. Words and thoughts fled in the face of the burning agony that followed the first instant of explosive cold.

All was silence in the room, save for the sound of the Bonaha cleaning his blade on something that sounded soft.

Lakhoni's heart hammered, his breath coming quickly. His arms trembled. His stomach revolted and he swallowed to keep its contents under control. Burning, throbbing, stabbing—an ecstasy of agony was all he knew. He had to get away.

He must not.

Put it away. He couldn't.

Pressure, then scraping, then a bright inferno on his face. He jerked again, this time more severely. He felt the blade nick him gently.

NO!

Alronna's face swam into view.

He sucked in a breath through lips that felt bigger than his face.

He pictured his knees, chewed and bruised by the obsidian. He saw the pain, bright red and deep black. He saw tendrils of pain reaching up his legs.

He cut the tendrils short. Pictured his knees on a soft hide.

He saw his hands, slashed to ribbons. Pictured them whole and grabbing onto a tree branch.

The pressure of the blade returned, this time on the top of his head.

He forced a slow breath into his lungs.

The cooling coal floated near.

He held the breath; felt his heart slam once, twice, then again.

The blade scraped.

Heat near his face.

Lakhoni slowly let out the breath as the coal touched his bottom lip.

He saw the pain explode, willed it to stop. He turned it around and tried to push the agony out with his breath.

Better, but a violent red haze still filled him. The need to flee softened his focus.

He flung his mind after the vision of Alronna.

Focus. Center.

Another breath punctuated by the sound of the Bonaha's blade being cleaned.

Alronna's face.

Like in the training circle.

Put the pain away. Find a place for it and shut the door.

Center!

The blade's edge pressed the right side of his head.

In his mind, he forced steel into his spine. He breathed deeply, slowly.

He reached into the stone under him, willing himself to become one with it.

Scrape. Heat.

Knives and fangs.

Alronna's face.

A new sensation broke him out of his forced trance. A hand on his shoulder.

Pain exploded all over his body in the moment that he reconnected with his surroundings.

"Lakhoni, you can release the rod," Gimno said softly.

The hand was Gimno's. The tall man's other hand was pulling on the thorny rod. "Let go, cub." Concern filled his voice.

Lakhoni had to remind himself how to open his hands. He had to envision them opening and then deliberately force each finger to move.

The rod dropped slightly as Gimno took it. He quickly hung it back near the hearth and returned to Lakhoni's side.

"Now stand," Gimno said.

"Arise, Lakhoni of the Separated." This time it was the Bonaha who spoke. "Sit down a new being, a new man. A warrior of the Living Dead."

Done? How-

Lakhoni flexed his leg muscles, pushing himself up. He got halfway up when he swayed, fresh pain in his knees making them buckle.

Gimno caught him under his arms and eased him into a chair that someone had moved nearby.

He wondered how long he had been in the trance, forcing fresh waves of pain into a place deep inside. How had he found that place? How could he find it again? Did I really pass?

A Consecrated appeared, handing Gimno soft bandaging cloths and a gut of something that sloshed. Another followed, carrying a sachet of something that smelled crisp like a new morning.

"It is well, Lakhoni," the Bonaha said. "Very well indeed. Your will is strong."

Gimno placed the sachet, which was moist to the touch against Lakhoni's lips. "Hold this."

Lakhoni obeyed, gently pressing the small packet to his mouth. Whatever it held felt incredibly cooling against the fire pulsating there. He felt gentle touches on his knees and looked down. Gimno was kneeling in front of him, washing his injuries.

"And now Gimno administers to you and his Rite of Consecration is completed," the Bonaha said. "Two rebirths in one day." Lakhoni turned to see the Bonaha pouring the contents of a clay bottle into an ornately carved wood cup. The Bonaha took a long sip. "A good day for the Separated."

As Gimno ministered first to his knees, then his hands, Lakhoni felt like mists in his brain were finally dissipating. I passed. And Gimno's a Consecrated. What had the Bonaha called them? The word came to him as a fresh stab of pain in his left hand made him flinch. A halkeen. So what does this mean?

"I know you are not familiar with our rites and traditions, my boy," the Bonaha said. "So listen closely. Gimno will continue to train you, as is his right. But you will shoulder some responsibility for the protection and sustenance of the Separated. When the wounds of your Trial have healed sufficiently, you will receive your first symbol."

Lakhoni wondered at that for a moment, but the Bonaha indicated the tattoo on his chest. "This first symbol is that of the Separated. You become worthy of a new one each time you take a life in defense of the Separated."

Now that the mists had dissipated from his mind, Lakhoni felt clean and sharp, almost supernaturally focused. Understanding immediately what the Bonaha implied, he looked down at Gimno. Gimno: covered in tattoos. The tall man must have had hundreds.

Hundreds of 'symbols.' Symbols of death.

He wondered what was meant by ''in defense of the Separated." He remembered the young boy.

As Gimno's gentle hands wrapped his injuries in soft, soothing ointment and cloth, Lakhoni knew what "in defense" meant.

Murder.

Just had to force myself...

noreply@blogger.com (JaredNGarrett) — Tue, 06 Apr 2010 20:09:00 +0000

to stop writing.

I've decided that before I get to my homework each day, I will write for about an hour-- shooting for around 1000 words. This is not a difficult goal for an hour's writing for me.

The problem is stopping!

Yesterday, I taught then graded. Then I had homework to do until my class and the other class I teach. So I started writing and just fell into Servant of the King. I wanted to write all day! I churned out 1300 words before I could stop myself.

Today I taught and then had a class to go to. I made it back to my workspace around noon and had lunch. Then I began writing again at around 12:30 or so.

1700 words later I just had to literally yell at myself to quit it. So I finally stopped.

Because I have a pile of homework that ain't going to do itself!

Anyway, I just thought I'd share. I really love this story and I really like this character and his world. I can't wait to get the whole thing down.

I'm going to try to have chapter 14 up here tonight. If you are reading this book, I would love to get some comments. Also, feel free to follow and share. I'm a writer; I'm needy.

Chapter 13 of Servant of the King

noreply@blogger.com (JaredNGarrett) — Fri, 02 Apr 2010 17:44:00 +0000

Chapter 13

The apple crunched satisfyingly in his mouth, sweet juices bursting and then flowing down his throat. Lakhoni edged closer to the fire, looking around at all of the people gathered in Gimno's fire circle. The small circle seemed to tremble with the intensity of the conversation going on around him.

When Gimno and his warriors had arrived, Lakhoni in tow, with tales of Usurpers in the area, people had flocked around them, asking questions. Many of those people now sat or stood in Gimno's fire circle, nervous chatter echoing off the stones. Tattoos glistened and flickered in the firelight. Food was being served and eaten at the same time and Lakhoni felt like he might make apples his only meal for the next few days.

It felt like a lifetime ago since the last time that Lakhoni had eaten a fresh apple. And having this one was really due to luck anyway. One of Gimno's warriors had spotted an apple tree full of ripe fruit soon after leaving the village. They had all filled pouches, blankets, pots and even tunics with as many apples as they could carry. Arriving at the cavern laden with apples and news of Usurpers some hours previous; the chaos had yet to subside.

Lakhoni knew he shouldn't eat so many apples in one sitting, but he couldn't stop himself from grabbing a fifth one. He felt like he hadn't eaten a piece of fruit in years. Weeks of dried, roasted, boiled meat and bland root vegetables along with heavy, coal-baked bread made the apples taste as if they were a gift from the First Fathers.

Chewing more thoughtfully now, and fully warmed after the journey through the cold winter day, Lakhoni rose and wandered around the fringes of the crowd. As he moved, he caught snatches of conversation, voices raised in angry tones.

"- find them and destroy them!"

"We must take things slowly and carefully. They are the invaders and-"

"- retrieve our birthright.."

This last caught his attention. It seemed strange that any of the Separated—a people that seemed to have left behind their birthright with Lemal's people of their own free choice—would want to reclaim a birthright that the Usurpers had stolen from Lemal's great grandfathers. Why would a people so determined to remain aloof and apart from a society that used to be home want to take back power stolen so many years before?

Lakhoni knew that every child of King Lemal's people heard the story—it seemed that the chief of the village had told it every year during the mid-autumn celebrations. After the First Fathers had all traveled across the great waters to the east, guided by the light of the Great One, a conflict had erupted. The father of the First Fathers had died, leaving his four sons and their families and cousins on their own. The two youngest sons had claimed to be chosen by the Great One to rule, but the two oldest, knowing it was a sin to fight family, had argued gently. When the younger brothers had raised their arms in anger, the older two had taken their families and fled into the wilderness to the south.

King Lemal was a descendant of one of those two older brothers. The Usurpers, somewhere far to the north, often invaded, trying to claim all of the earth for their greedy power, but Lemal's people—the People of Promise—had always fended the Usurpers off.

It was said that the Usurpers practiced all kinds of evil, sacrificing humans and doing unthinkable things with animals and innocents.

Now it seemed the Usurpers had made it farther south than anyone could remember seeing them.

And, for some reason, they had visited Lakhoni's village, and maybe even gone into his family's hut. Why? Lakhoni drifted away from the crowd, heading in the direction of one of the training rings in the middle of the cavern. After a long minute of drawing a complete blank, Lakhoni stuffed the core of his apple into his mouth and shook his head.

It was none of his concern. His only thought now should be to do all he could to gain the total trust of the Separated so that he could find a way to escape and get to the city of Lemalihah. And there he would find his sister and guide the sword of justice to fall upon those who had murdered his family.

He stepped between the two tall stones that had been placed as a portal to his favorite training ring. A cursory examination of the four circles where warriors trained made it seem that they were identical. But Lakhoni had quickly found that appearances were deceiving when the floor was stone of multiple hues and shapes. His favorite training circle had several dips and a small knoll near the center. When he stood upon that knoll, he felt like he gained a height advantage—and he knew he needed all the help he could get.

Gimno had agreed that Lakhoni was probably at his adult height—which was not much taller than the head of a donkey. Lakhoni remembered that the last time he had been measured, his father had declared him to be just over eleven hands tall. While this was probably average among the descendants of the First Fathers, it seemed like the men of the Separated were all unusually large.

So Lakhoni liked his knoll. He had run, dodged, ducked and rolled around this training circle enough to know where all of the depressions and bumps were. Looking around, he was glad that most of the people were still at Gimno's circle, leaving him free to work alone. He didn't like having an audience, especially when he was practicing Feather Leaps.

He strode across the circle and stood atop the small, rough knoll. He placed his feet shoulder-width apart and closed his eyes, letting out a slow breath. Sucking in another long breath, he focused on the feeling of his feet on the stone, willing his body to become completely still. In a brief moment, he had centered; his body feeling nearly one with the stone beneath him. Gimno said that he would learn to center so well at some point that if a running boar were to slam into him full-tilt, while he was centered, he would not be moved.

Lakhoni didn't know yet if he believed that, but he knew that he felt strength infuse him with each moment that passed as he stood still and calm.

Reminding himself to keep his breathing even and steady, Lakhoni began to flex his leg muscles. He pushed them to become tighter and tighter, willing his breathing to remain even. When he felt his legs might snap, he bent his legs slightly and launched himself forward. He stretched his right leg forward, aiming the ball and toes of the foot at a small rise on the ground. He tightened the muscles of his right leg and bent it the moment before his foot came in contact with the rise. Pushing off almost before he landed, he flung himself to the left now, his left leg tight and his foot aimed carefully at another small rise.

This was the Feather Leap; it was how Gimno had descended the entrance shaft to the cavern of the Separated on the night that Lakhoni had first been taken in. The objective was to be in such control of your muscles and actions that you could push off anything quickly and easily—and through this be able to change your movement and its direction with astonishing speed. Gimno insisted that a man could dodge arrows from an army with the Feather Leap.

Lakhoni knew he couldn't dodge an apple core thrown by a child yet, but he intended to master this technique. Pushing off his left leg, he sprang across the ring to another rise, and then another. Soon he was nearing the portal stones. Elation filled him. He knew he was spending too much time on the ground before each succeeding leap, but he also knew he was doing better than ever before.

Gathering all of his strength and forcing it into his right leg until it practically hummed with tension, he pushed off the last rise. He shot off the ground and reached toward the top of the stone. Gimno had done this and had leapt easily to the top of this portal stone two weeks previous.

He was going to make it!

His knees slammed into the stone with an explosion of hot pain. In a flash he knew that if he were to hit the ground as askew as he was, he could break a leg. Frustration at himself filled him even as he instinctively pushed off the stone with his arms before he could slide too far down and hit the ground. He arched his back as far backward as he could, envisioning himself doing a back flip and hopefully landing on all fours. He had to tuck his legs—like this—tight up to his body and fling his arms hard in the direction of his mid-air tumble.

He hit the ground, balls of his feet landing first, his legs bending quickly to absorb the impact and his right hand coming down immediately after. He stopped moving, feeling as if he had landed lighter than he could have hoped for.

Lakhoni stayed that way for a moment. The dark brown and black hues of the cavern floor filled his vision. By the Fathers. He glanced at his posture. He felt like he had landed like a cat, or a spider—lightly and in total control. The flip he had done passed through his mind; he felt like he could almost see what he had made his body do.

"How did I do that?" he asked the ground. He pushed himself to his feet and glanced around. Nobody was near; nobody had seen. He briefly wondered why he cared that none of the Separated had seen him, but the thought left him as a glimmer of understanding lit his mind. "I thought I was going to make it. I lost focus on my actions and forgot the moment." He knew this was why he hadn't gained the top of the portal stone. Gimno had said, countless times, that he had to be in total control of each muscle and that anticipation, fear, and other emotions too often got in the way of that control.

That must be how I did the flip. It was like I was watching myself. Lakhoni shook off the surprise at what he had done and focused on his state of mind during the flip and his landing. He needed to be able to do that kind of thing again. It must have been the danger of breaking my leg. I knew I couldn't afford to do that. I wouldn't get out of here for months. It had been the need that made him focus. The urgency of staying healthy seemed to have cleared his focus so much until it was sharp as the edge of a fine obsidian dagger. I need to be able to focus like that again.

The pain in his knees faded as he walked slowly inside the perimeter of the training ring. He thought about justice and rescue; the mission he felt commanded by his family to fulfill. As he did so, keeping his breathing calm and even, envisioning his family and village, he felt his focus sharpening. It was almost as if he could look around and see the stone huts of his village instead of the stone walls and huts of the Separated. His family and friends walked and smiled in his imagination.

This is my focus. Purity of intention. Justice for the death of innocents.

He strode across the ring again, gaining his knoll and centering himself quickly. He took a deep breath and flung himself forward. He feather-leaped from rise to rise, feeling a delicious strength and clarity fill him.

As he leapt, he considered trying the portal stone again. He decided against it. He would try another day when he was stronger.

He landed lightly back on his knoll, his breath still even and feeling as if he had taken a refreshing walk.

"Cub!"

Tingles of surprise splashed up his neck and on his scalp. He spun toward the voice.

Gimno leaned casually against a portal stone, regarding him with bright eyes. "Well done! Still needs work, but you've been practicing, I see."

Digging frantically for the crystal-clear focus he had felt moments ago, Lakhoni grinned at the tall, fiercely tattooed man. With a feeling of sudden rightness, Lakhoni felt his focus return. "Who needs practice?"

"You still do, but that is good work." Gimno smiled at Lakhoni's insolent tone.

"I've got time."

"You do." Gimno turned and gestured for Lakhoni to follow. "Come now. You are due for a haircut."

Lakhoni followed, stroking his head with one hand. Gimno was right. Lakhoni hadn't noticed it, but he now had some thick fuzz covering his entire scalp. And his youth patch at the top and front of his head was almost a half-thumb length.

He followed Gimno as the tall man wove between huts, making his way toward a side of the cavern Lakhoni had never been to. This was the side where the small man who had led the sacrifice of the boy lived. This was-

Lakhoni could tell by Gimno's body language where the man was heading: directly toward the hardened leather-covered wood door of the spiritual leader of the Separated. Was it possible that the man who had killed the boy was to be the person who would shave Lakhoni's head?

Would he use the same knife that was used to kill the boy? A tremor of fear ran the length of Lakhoni's body. Fury followed on the fear's heels. Then fear came again. How could Lakhoni hide his revulsion from this man? And if the man detected Lakhoni's true feelings, there was no doubt what would come next.

Gimno stopped a few paces in front of the door and clapped loudly three times.

Lakhoni glanced around, wondering if he could make his escape now.

It would be certain death.

The door to the hut swung outwards, and one of the red-dyed men stepped out. He looked at Gimno questioningly.

"This cub is due for a haircut."

The red man glanced at Lakhoni.

Fear made Lakhoni's muscles go soft. He suddenly felt the need to use the privy. He had to focus again!

"Come," the red man said and turned back into the hut.

Gimno followed, ducking slightly to avoid knocking his head against the top of the doorway.

Lakhoni stepped forward, the darkness inside the hut and the darkness he knew to be in the murdering man who lived there filling him with terrible fear. But that darkness beckoned him forward and he could not resist it.

Tough week

noreply@blogger.com (JaredNGarrett) — Fri, 02 Apr 2010 05:34:00 +0000

Well, it's been a long week, and it's not over yet. Today I found out that a project I am working on with a group needs to be done next week, as opposed to in two weeks from now. So we have to get cracking. I take comfort from the thought that this means I will be done with one of my classes a week early.

I have allowed my focus to slide too much during this week. I could have accomplished more, could have supped more from the moments and minutes of each day. I will do better.

I've written about 500 words today and have about 700 words of the next chapter in Servant of the King done. I have also gotten a solid start on the write-up of my MA project.

I wonder if all writers experience the fluctuations from confidence to despair--sometimes in a matter of minutes? I wonder how long I can make my skin thick so that when I enter three writing contests and don't place in even one of them, I don't give into the feeling that I really ought to just throw in the towel? I wonder why companies who advertise job openings with descriptions that look like they were lifted from my resume don't seem to realize I am the best man for the job?

Is it possible that this absurdity called "Overqualified" is a reality in today's corporate world?

I don't think we're supposed to struggle and scrape every second of every day until I make it as an author. I mean, that's still going to be a ways out, barring a wonderful, welcome miracle. So I fully expect to land a full time job.

I just pray it can be soon so that some of the pressure will be released. Just a bit, please?

And I wonder if our nation is going to regain greatness or if the clear trends in our government and the paternalistic state we are moving toward are signs of a permanent change?

For now, I better apply for some more jobs. And when I kneel in prayer before I go to sleep, I intend to express vocal thanks for the gift of storytelling and the story in Servant of the King in particular. And when I do that, I am sure I will- as happens so often- feel the sweetness of the still, small voice of the Spirit of my Father. I will put images of long rows of mediocre books filling bookstores out of my mind. I will force thoughts of hopelessness out and I will let Charity in.

Servant of the King, Chapter 12

noreply@blogger.com (JaredNGarrett) — Fri, 26 Mar 2010 02:10:00 +0000

Chapter 12

Lakhoni marveled at the sight before him. Blue—vast, pale and glimmering in the dawn light—stretched from horizon to horizon. Mist clung to the great mountains far to the east. The tallest, Sinhael, had its tip completely obscured by the gauzy clouds that seemed to never leave the mountain—as if they were the breath of some mighty being that inhabited the mountain. Sinhael—Heaven's Tower. Lakhoni wondered if it was true what Lamorun had told him, that some of the First Fathers had climbed the mountain and disappeared, supposedly taken up to the heavens.

Old wives' tales, no doubt.

Lakhoni tore his gaze from the mighty peak and drank in the sights of the surface world, feeling like he could take a deep breath and consume the trees with their deep green leaves and needles, the taste of a fresh day, the feel of new air on the skin. He could consume it and become one with it, leaving a world of bloody nightmares and painful training behind.

He sighed. He would never have thought that after only two weeks of being underground he would feel as if he were coming back to life on his first journey to the surface.

"Cub!" Gimno's voice rasped, sounding like a porcupine's quills might sound if they were used to scrub stone clean. "Wake up!"

Lakhoni rebuked himself for his reverie and cast about to find Gimno. The tall, tattooed man leaned on a nearby tree. "Will you be joining us today?"

Lakhoni forced a smile—it was becoming easier. He noticed that with each day that passed since the young boy had been murdered and nothing else horrible happened, the fake smile and enthusiasm became easier to force. He felt more and more able to conceal the emptiness that skulked in his soul. "I just wanted to give your old legs a head start," Lakhoni said.

Gimno's eyes went wide. "My old--?" A moment passed and Gimno barked an appreciative laugh then began moving through the trees.

Lakhoni joined the man, feeling nearly naked in the chill air. He wore only leather breeches with a thick strap around his waist which held a short knife. Walking on the stone cavern floor seemed to have hardened his feet even more than they had been before, so the forest floor didn't bother him. But the chill of day—which must have been nearly the first day of winter—made him long for the tunics he had left at his village.

He was sweating before the sun had moved more than a hand-span upwards in the eastern sky. Gimno set a fast pace, sliding through the trees and around or over brush like one of the great cats Lakhoni had heard about. The tall man didn't seem to make a sound. Lakhoni, on the other hand, still had trouble running without pain in his side. His head seemed to be completely better, but Corzon had only removed stitches from his side a few days previously.

Within another hour of running and gritting his teeth, Lakhoni knew where he was. His jaw aching, he called out to Gimno. "To my village?" A stab of apprehension filled him. What would he see there? Would the fire have consumed everyone?

"Of course," Gimno said, slowing to a walk. "You must claim your property."

My property?

He remembered. When Gimno had first appeared and led him away, the tall man had said something about everything in the village being Lakhoni's, since he was the only survivor. Fear of what he might find and feel slowed his steps.

"Come along, cub." Gimno slapped Lakhoni's shoulder. "If it were not difficult to do this, there would be no point in it. You will be stronger afterward."

They sympathy in Gimno's voice seemed real to Lakhoni. As he lengthened his stride, Lakhoni tried to resolve the many different sides to the tall man. Gimno was happy to see a young buy murdered but then seemed to be able to express sympathy, love and even a sense of humor.

Lakhoni tried to move faster, even as images of the previous weeks flitted through his mind. Gimno smiling with Vena and joking with Anor. Gimno's stolid patience as Lakhoni practiced a complex pattern of thrusts and feints with a stone dagger. Gimno's face and chest smeared in blood. Sharing a laugh with Corzon.

Gimno slowed, then stopped, turning toward Lakhoni. "We are here."

Lakhoni peered through the trees and realized he had not been paying attention to the last few minutes of the journey. He and Gimno stood behind the hut that had been Salno's, distinctive for the intricate carvings on many of the stones making up the walls. His eyes darted from hut to hut, something inside him telling him that someone else might have survived, that at any moment he could see movement.

Nothing moved.

Lakhoni stepped out from the shelter of the trees. The sun was over his left shoulder, so he had to take a few more steps to leave the forests' shadow. A chill, not from the autumn day, passed through him. As he approached the well, he saw that there were no stains from blood spilled upon the ground. Rain must have fallen at some point during the last weeks. He passed the well and within moments stood before the dark jumble that remained from the bonfire. Somehow the coals and embers must have stayed hot for a long time, because he could only see black, grey and white ash.

With a start, he realized that some of the white was gleaming bone. He turned away, fighting the sudden urge to empty his stomach. His throat tightened with the strain.

"You must let the dead go," Gimno said, his steps quiet as he crossed the village center. "They know nothing of you now."

Lakhoni squeezed his eyes closed, seeking strength from inside. I won't let them go. I will not betray them like that.

"But never let your anger leave," Gimno continued.

Again, the tall man's seeming ability to understand Lakhoni's thoughts threw him off guard.

"Your anger," Gimno said, "will push you through the pain and discomfort of learning to be one of the warriors for the Separated. Your anger will remind you in the dark of night, when you want to cry yourself to sleep, when your body feels like a skinned bear, why you fight."

Lakhoni mulled that over. "But you keep saying that I should never fight angry. That when I am fighting, I must be completely without feeling or emotion."

Nodding, Gimno smiled. "Yes, you remember well. But this anger is the type of anger you put in your soul, letting its heat fill you." Gimno looked up into the blue sky, then seemed to survey the trees surrounding the dead village. "This is pure anger, not the shallow kind you feel at a slight or offense."

Lakhoni stepped back and turned, making for his old home. It looked different somehow- the way a house looks when there is nobody in it. He felt like he could remember seeing his old home as if it glowed, when the conversation and joy of his family seemed to fill it to bursting. Now it sat derelict, the stones resting tiredly atop each other. "So pure anger is what you put away, banking it like a coal for a time you will need it."

Gimno's grunt confirmed to Lakhoni that his understanding had been correct. "Yes. Put it away, but not too far. Where you can reach it. It will give you strength."

Stepping into the dimness of his home, Lakhoni felt deeply what Gimno was saying. He remembered the day he had spent gathering his family and friends' bodies. He remembered the hot yet… stone-hard feeling that had filled his muscles. He knew this pure anger that Gimno spoke of. I have already felt that strength. He looked around the hut, seeing nothing that he cared to claim. And you, Gimno, have added to it. You and your people.

An image of crimson blood floating off the point of a dagger flashed through his mind. The revulsion had faded over the fourteen days since the little boy's death, but fury at his own inaction and impotence still blazed in Lakhoni's stomach.

A shiver ran through him; the heat inside of him contrasting sharply with the chill of the late-season day. Tunics. He had tunics somewhere. And his warm bear skin that he wore in the winter. Surely it would get cold even in the caverns of the Separated.

If he was still there when winter had fully arrived.

Lakhoni searched the hut, quickly turning up his tunics. He had to get away from the Separated soon, but he felt that it was still too early. He knew that Gimno was watching him closely. And Corzon, though friendly, seemed to be constantly glancing over at him during meals and gatherings.

No, Lakhoni thought, I can't leave any time soon. I'm still too new, still untested. I have to become nothing unusual, something commonplace. He felt that if he could get to a point where his comings and goings were unsupervised and unquestioned, he would be ready. The Separated would not let him go easily. Their hidden home under the ground was far too valuable of a secret. It was possible that they might hunt him once he got away in order to keep him from telling others about the cavern.

Where is my bear skin? It occurred to Lakhoni that he had been absentmindedly searching for the skin for quite a while. He checked under sleeping mats and in every nook in the small hut. He couldn't remember wearing it any time recently, and he was sure nobody else had used it.

"The raiding party," he murmured. Thieves and murderers. They had taken the bear skin, of course.

He realized suddenly that he lived with thieves and murderers; that he was trying to be counted as one of them. He needed his bear skin; he had to get away soon, even if it meant leaving in the dead of winter. He felt like every moment he stayed with the Separated was one step closer to the death of his soul.

"Cub!"

Lakhoni whirled at the loud voice.

"We cannot tarry long. The day is not our friend." Gimno's voice easily carried through into the hut.

"Coming," Lakhoni said. He dropped his mother's sleeping mat back to the ground. Dark flecks, blown by the wind raised by the falling mat, scattered. Lakhoni turned to the door, then stopped. Dark dirt? The floor of the hut was pale, packed dirt. Where had the dark stuff come from?

"Cub," Gimno's voice came again. "You need to see this."

The serious tone made Lakhoni look toward the door. "Okay." Lakhoni lifted his mother's sleeping mat again. Pale, hard-packed dirt was all he saw. But some darker dirt seemed to be gathered at about the center of where the mat usually sat. Lakhoni quickly folded the mat back on itself and knelt, his hands in the dark dirt. He ran his fingers through it, then felt something hard and straight. Bending closer, he brushed dirt away from the hard thing. He blew on it and a straight line was revealed, as well as a corner. Knowing Gimno could walk in at any second, Lakhoni quickly blew again, using his fingers to completely uncover a pale stone that matched the color of the dirt perfectly. It was completely square. Jabbing a finger under one corner, Lakhoni lifted.

The stone was heavy, but Lakhoni was able to get more fingers under it, then his other hand. A hole, as deep as the length of his arm, gaped at him. It was empty, but the dark dirt around the edges of the hole told Lakhoni that something had recently been taken out. He probably wouldn't have noticed anything, except that his mother's mat had preserved some of the more moist dirt, leaving the black flecks.

What was in here? Did the raiding party take it?

Lakhoni felt movement outside the door to the hut. He dropped the stone, replaced the mat and moved to stand up.

Too late. Gimno stood in the doorway.

"What is taking so long?"

"I can't find my bear skin."

"And you think it might be on that bed? Were you planning on taking a nap?"

Lakhoni stood. "I thought it might be under a bed, or around one somewhere."

"Obviously the king's dogs took it."

"Probably."

Gimno fixed Lakhoni with a hard look. "They are thieves, almost as bad as the Usurpers. The Usurpers took the birthright from their elder brothers—the greatest sin committed by any of our people. But Lemal's dogs kill and steal with the sole purpose of getting gain for their master."

Gimno gestured for Lakhoni to follow him. "Not probably, cub. They took it."

Lakhoni followed Gimno out of the hut, his mind racing. What had his mother been keeping under her bed? Had his father known about whatever it was? Had Lamorun or Alronna known? If they had, why hadn't they told him as well?

Was it possible that the king's raiding party had slaughtered the entire village for the sole purpose of finding whatever it was?

"Look here."

Lakhoni glanced down at the ground where Gimno was indicating. He crouched and looked closer. A footprint, the toes pointing toward his family's hut.

"So?"

Gimno smiled fiercely. "Overcome the limited teaching of your previous life and use your brain. Unless it is scrambled permanently from that blow you took."

Lakhoni gritted his teeth.

"Look closer," Gimno said.

He did so. He quickly noticed something he hadn't seen before. It was a footprint, but there was no outline for the toes. Even if the print was older than a week, there should still be a sign of toes. "Somebody wearing a shoe of some kind."

Gimno struck Lakhoni on the left shoulder. "There! How do you know it hasn't worn away?"

"It's not the stormy season. Early winter is almost always still and dry." Lakhoni looked around some. "No animal tracks. No signs of any kind of weather. This print has not faded or deteriorated much. So no toes means a shoe."

"Good. What else?"

Lakhoni sat back on his haunches, considering. "Nobody in my village wore shoes. Neither do your people."

"Our people," Gimno said firmly.

"Our people." Lakhoni carefully kept his emotions under control, his face still. He stood and walked carefully around the immediate area, scouring the ground. "This one's on top of older prints without shoes. Probably from one of the king's raiding party."

"A good guess. It might be that Lemal's dog's wore boots of some kind." Gimno raised an eyebrow. "But keep looking."

Lakhoni hunkered down again, trying to take everything before him in. He looked around the village center, trying to order events in his mind. He ignored the other Separated who were gathering items from the huts and making a pile near the well. A glimmer of a thought came to him. He turned to the dirt again. In a moment, he found it: blood. Once he found the first patch, he could easily distinguish the dark patches in the dirt. He looked back at the print.

"But this print is on top of blood. On top of my old prints too. Someone came here after that night."

Gimno nodded. "Yes."

"Not the king's men. This is someone else." Confusion struck him. "But who else would have come here?"

"That's a stiff leather boot. Someone prosperous."

Lakhoni stood and faced the tall man, who also stood up. "Who would have come? And why?"

The lines in Gimno's face hardened. He looked out over the dark trees, in the direction of the cavern of the Separated. "I can tell you who. It is a guess, but my gut tells me I am right. But I cannot tell you why." He started toward the trees, gesturing at the other men. "We leave now."

With arms full of blankets, pots and other things culled from the village, the men of the Separated melted into the trees.

"Gimno," Lakhoni said. "Who? Who came here?"

His tattoos glistening in the sun, Gimno continued into the trees. Lakhoni hurried to catch up, his heart beating quickly. He realized something all of sudden. Gimno was scared. This hurry and the weight of the tall man's voice told Lakhoni that the warrior was scared.

Gimno's voice rasped through the shadows of the forest. "The Usurpers. The Usurpers came to your village."

Yes, I am still writing.

noreply@blogger.com (JaredNGarrett) — Thu, 18 Mar 2010 05:26:00 +0000

Hi folks! Thanks for stopping by-- and thanks to so many of you for letting me know that you want me to keep at it with Servant of the King. I am enjoying it immensely. I've had to squeeze writing time out of moments here and there--essentially from the margins of my day. I have a lot going on. I'd like to fill you in on what I'm doing right now.

Taking 8 credits-- only 1 or 2 to go after this semester until I finish my MA in TESOL/Instructional Design.
Working steadily on my MA project-- have the write up going already. I will graduate in August, but am trying to land a full time job that starts anytime after April 16th.
Working as the Public Relations guy for our Graduate Student Society.
Teaching for about 9-10 hours each week.
Working as a pedagogical consultant for a professor in the IP&T department. I work with novice Stats TA's. This is 4-5 hours/week.
Doing an internship for 2 of my 8 credits. Writing reflections and the like as part of the internship.
Taking an extra creative writing class (not enrolled-- don't want to spend the $$)
Cooking dinner 3-4 times a week and then all the other fun, challenging joys of parenting 5 wonderful kids and husbanding 1 fabulous female.
Serving as Elder's Quorum President in my Zion-like ward.
Just accepted a freelance editing job.
Actively seeking and interviewing for a full-time job.

So I'm staying busy. I have been working here and there on Servant. I don't have a new chapter yet, but I will tomorrow.

I wanted to share some thoughts on teaching. I've been working on a reflection on my internship and today finished writing kind of a summary of the experience so far.

Here it is. Read it if you want, or don't if you don't. It's long. If you DO read it, I'd love to hear what you think.

My Internship Experience

I did my internship at the English Language Center. I was fortunate in that I was able to have the teaching I was doing there qualify for internship credit—so this was essentially a paid internship. During the internship, I taught one class of Linguistic Accuracy—Level C and a brief class wherein we reviewed the weekly vocabulary tests. At the beginning of the internship, I decided I would make a formal attempt to get more out of this semester of teaching than usual. To that end, I kept a far more detailed, daily record of what we did in class and I also tried some new activities. I also tried to get more out of what I read in and out of classes, and I spent more time digging. With my focus being on gaining more than usual from my teaching experience, my internship became quite valuable. The value of what transpired this semester can be summed up in two key areas: theory versus practice and engaged learning.
The ELC is a lab school. We know what that means, but I think it will be useful to get into some detail about what a lab school is and the inherent potential of this type of school. This type of organization tends to have teacher training as a main focus. I think this is valuable. I also feel like it might be somewhat limiting if the institution is not always making efforts to find new approaches to teacher improvement. I say this because it seems conceivable that the typical teacher who works at a lab school might have a particular trajectory. This teacher might end up at the lab school a true novice—having only done perhaps some observations and some practicum teaching. This teacher, at this point, is a hungry teacher who is eager to gain knowledge, skills, and coping strategies. Motivation is based on an eager, fervent desire to do a good job but also a need to not drown in the myriad responsibilities of teaching a second language.
            Thus, this novice teacher goes to work and the curve of his progression and improvement is quite steep. He learns to manage a classroom and to create effective lessons that lead to terminal objectives. He does this over the next couple of semesters. And then he hits a plateau. He feels he has things under control and he can replicate systems and approaches for whatever the school throws at him. In language learning, we call this fossilization. I worry that a lab school might suffer from this type of plateau-ing if there are not programs or systems in place to keep that teacher stretching.
            I think that an internship with a few well-designed, periodic assignments and an involved supervisor is an example of the type of program that should be required in a program that has a lab school attached to it. I also feel that mentoring opportunities should be an expected part of the lab school experience. These opportunities would keep the teacher from hitting a plateau and staying there for a while—they would keep that teacher stretching further and in different directions.
   This essentially sums up what I learned about theory versus practice. I feel that there is much theory discussed in many of the Linguistics 500 level classes, and that the new 600 level classes that are worth only two credits seek practical opportunities for students—but still in the classroom! Classrooms and lab schools, particularly the ELC, are very controlled environments that, while not sanitized, are free from much of the pressure, worry and hassle of real world situations. Now, I'm not suggesting we artificially manufacture the grit of the world in our classrooms, but I think it might be more useful for grads and the local community if we tried something else.
            What I would suggest is a materials development class that goes to a local school that has some ESL special needs. The students in the materials development class could then perform a needs analysis in collaboration with a teacher or administrator in that school, then actually create a real set of materials to be used in that school.
            Do you see what this would offer our graduates? They would have to contend with folks in the real world—professionals who know their stuff and students who have real stakes at play. What is more, the students would have to balance the need to conform to local school district standards while creating practical, innovative materials and systems. This, to me, is real application of theory into practice—in a truly authentic situation.
            The other area I learned the most about during my internship was about engaged learning. I have been reading a book called Engaging Learning by Clark Quinn, and in connection with that book have been viewing videos, reading articles, and interacting with professionals around the world. It's an undeniable fact that today's learners are, in some truly fundamental ways, different from yesterday's learners. These students are absolute digital natives. They haven't known a world without Internet or cell phones, and in a few short years, will not have known a world without texting. These students' attention can jump as fast as it takes to go from one hyperlink to another.
            We must, as teachers, adjust what we do if we want to be effective. Completely outdated are the old methods of lecturer handing down knowledge like Prometheus granting the boon of fire to humanity from Mount Olympus. Today, the instructor must do what it takes to engage learners. Of course learners have a responsibility to make the effort to become engaged and stay engaged in their learning, but that does not reduce the responsibility teachers have to present their knowledge in an accessible way. Look at this like Krashen did: comprehensible input + 1. It's not too far afield to claim that tradition-bound approaches of handing out codified learning are, to our digital native students, incomprehensible input.
            So teachers—wherever they are—must see as part of their duty as teachers the need to utilize technology and vast amounts of multimedia to good purpose in their classrooms. They need to see learning as a collaborative, organic experience that need not be linear all of the time. This is not all to say that we must throw out old approaches. Indeed, the Socratic method is very effective with learners who like to discover knowledge on their own. This is all to say that we must be sure to plan how we will engage our learners in learning that will be considered fun and absorbing. To do this, we need to understand our learners better and we must also understand the technological potential and possibilities that are available today.
            So all in all, my internship taught me that there is still so much to learn, experience and do. My internship taught me that my field is still young and vibrant, and that I have a great deal to offer if I can continue to hungrily seek after better, more engaging and effective ways to involve learners in their learning. My motivation is no longer how I can swim in the deep waters of the myriad responsibilities of teaching—rather it is how I can teach my students how to navigate their own deep waters of the endless world of knowledge around them.