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Tag Archives: minor annoyances

Bound to the Flame, Chapter IV, Part III

15 Sunday Jun 2014

Posted by erinkenobi2893 in Bound to the Flame, Tales of a Wandering Bard

≈ 26 Comments

Tags

apologies, bound to the flame, life, minor annoyances, stories in progress

Hello, everyone! Sorry about the wait… when real life intrudes, the blog suffers. :-S Even when the blogger has 30k plus words up her sleeve to post… Sorry, once again. There won’t be much this time… Chapter IV was a short chapter.

On to Rowan!

Bound to the Flame

Chapter IV

Part III

                He met Margery as she was coming back out of the camp. “Rowan, where have you been?” she asked.

“I know Adyn’s safe,” he said. Margery registered irritation at him.

“If you knew that before, then why ever did you go off on a wild-goose chase?” she said, frustrated.

“I didn’t know before,” Rowan said coolly. “I couldn’t know before I looked for him myself. My mind was not clear, and I could not risk trying to search for him mentally.” Margery shrugged.

“Where were you, anyway?” she asked.

“At a place I’m glad Adyn did not go,” Rowan replied. “My mind has been blurred, clouded, ever since we came here, but now it’s perfectly clear. We must find my brother Julian.”

“Does being among a big crowd usually distract you?” Margery asked.

“It wasn’t the crowd,” Rowan assured her as he led her through the Ertraian camp. In a few minutes, they arrived at the royal pavilion. A few smaller tents were grouped around it, in a small circle. “None of us sleeps in the pavilion,” Rowan confided. “My parents share a tent with me, and my foster brothers have a tent to themselves. Fortaine is probably with my mother in council, but Julian was on duty late last night. He’s probably sleeping right now. You might want to make yourself scarce, if he is. He’s a bear when he’s first woken up of a morning.” Rowan continued toward the tent; Margery remained behind. “Julian?” he asked, out of courtesy, before entering. No answer. Not a sound. Rowan pulled aside the heavy canvas tent flap. He gasped and dropped to his knees. Margery looked over his shoulder and gave a cry of shock.

The tent was a scene of chaos. The small wooden folding table that stood beside the cot was overturned, and the pitcher and basin lay on the ground, shattered. The grass was still damp, but the dry ground had already sucked up all the water. The broken pieces of a smashed chair lay mixed with the pottery. The sheets of the cot were thrashed, and ripped to shreds. Even the second cot, the one that should have been untouched, was in a shambles. The tent was empty.

Julian was gone.

Recovering, Rowan stepped into the tent, careful not to disturb anything. He examined the bed closely, looked at the table, chair, and broken jar and basin. At last, he cautiously lay on the bed, leaped up with more speed than Margery would have thought possible, moved to the other side of the tent, brushed his elbow up against an imaginary jar, leaped sideways, paused once more to examine the signs of the struggle again, began to move again, laying smaller steps into place, tracing the movement of one who had been there before, moving gracefully and yet purposefully about. Tiny pale flickers followed his every move, darting here and there, forming shy, glimmering lines. Margery watched, entranced. “What are you doing?” she asked in a loud whisper. Rowan gathered some of the glimmering dust into his palm and blew it outward into the open space of the tent. It swirled around, forming the shapes of an un-tipped table, an unbroken pitcher and basin, a chair, an un-rumpled cot, and the figure of a man lying on it. Margery could not see the apparition’s face clearly, but she could tell that the shining outline was meant to be Julian. The man stirred at what appeared to be a sudden sound, though there was no sound in the re-creation, and leaped to his feet. His elbow brushed against the pitcher and it fell, smashing silently into shards, which flew outwards, outlining their solid counterparts in an unearthly glow. Shadoy figured raced into the tent, strangely soundless, overturning the table and overcoming the brave knight, knocking him unconscious and dragging him from the shelter. The pale glow slowly dimmed, faded away; Rowan held up a hand. On his face was a look of intense concentration. The lines flashed out again and went dormant. Walking quickly to the table, Rowan grabbed a sheet of paper and a quill pen. The ink bottle was mercifully unbroken, and Rowan penned two notes with astonishing swiftness. Laying one on the bed, he tucked the other into his belt and walked swiftly from the tent. Margery preceded him out. Turning at the entrance, Rowan made a swift gesture, as if sliding something closed with both hands, open palms facing forward. The tent flaps closed and tied themselves in an intricate fastening. Rowan walked swiftly to his own tent, with Margery following. “What did you do?” she asked, curious.

“I bound the memory spell so that it would last, and then sealed the area. No one will be able to enter it and disturb it before my mother comes.” He laid the second note down on his cot and walked swiftly away, a slight limp the only reminder of his long-since injured and never fully healed leg.

“What are you doing?” Margery demanded.

“No one else will come for a long time,” Rowan replied. “They’re all in the Council meetings. I’m going after my brother.” They made their way to the stables, Margery trailing hesitantly behind her friend.

“Why can’t you wait?” she asked. “It’s dangerous.”

“Dangerous or not, the longer we wait, the greater the head start Julian’s kidnappers will have. Besides, I’m not exactly defenseless.” Rowan shifted his cloak, briefly. A dagger glinted at his belt, then was hidden once more. “He’s my brother. I have to help him.” Rowan took down the saddle from its hook and laid it on a jet-black horse’s back, patting its neck reassuringly as he did so. The horse whinnied softly.

“I’m coming with you,” Margery declared. Rowan froze, caught halfway in tightening the girth.

“What?” he asked.

“I said, I’m coming with you,” Margery repeated stubbornly.

“But… you can’t, you have to stay with your family… what would your mother think?” Rowan stammered.

“She’d think I was off on another adventure, and that I’ll come home safe. I always do,” Margery said self-assuredly, saddling Celad as she spoke. Rowan took a bow and arrows from the wall, slinging the quiver across his back. He slipped a sling into one of the saddlebags and slid a long sword in its scabbard through the waiting loops in the saddle.

“But Julian has no claim on you,” he protested. “I should go alone.”

“No Ertraian has any claim on me,” Margery said. She locked eyes with Rowan. “But there is one Ertraian whom I consider my friend.” Rowan’s mouth curled into a twist. He was not pleased with the decision, but he would bow to her wishes.

“Very well,” he said. He slid one foot into the stirrup and slung the other over the saddle with the practiced ease of an experienced rider, flicking the reins, signaling the coal-black horse into a trot. Margery followed suit, and Rowan led her off through the camp, into the woods.

Bound to the Flame, Chapter II, Part VI

27 Sunday Apr 2014

Posted by erinkenobi2893 in Bound to the Flame, Living Life with Passion, Tales of a Wandering Bard, Uncategorized

≈ 12 Comments

Tags

bound to the flame, camp nanowrimo april 2014, minor annoyances, nanowrimo, national novel writing month, pet peeves, works in progress

Hello, my dear readers, and welcome to the next installment of Bound to the Flame. News from Camp Nanowrimo: I am currently having a slight bit of bother, due to being stuck in places on my novel. Hopefully this will resolve itself shortly. If anyone has any ideas what two rebel groups trying to contact other rebels might do in the process, then please, by all means, tell me your ideas!

[NB: I have had some trouble with getting the parts posted in order. It might help to go to the Bound to the Flame Chapters and Artwork page and re-read them in order! Apologies for the trouble, and please enjoy!]

Bound to the Flame

Chapter II

Part IV

Shortly after, a lesser herald came out to fetch them for the feast. The herald seated them in a somewhat confused jumble, near their parents, but not too near. The Elruun royalty had no children yet, so it was simply the Ertraian and Arethwyne children. Margery found herself sitting in between Julian, a charming, roguish young knight, and one of Rowan’s two adoptive brothers, and Rowan, with Fortaine, the eldest of the three Ertraians, sitting in the midst of the Arethwyne princes on Rowan’s other side. Margery decided she liked Rowan’s foster brother. He was fascinating, charming, and kind, the sort of person who is popular everywhere, and he had the same curious ability that Rowan seemed to possess of taking a boring topic, and by some strange alchemy, rendering it captivating. Margery wondered if Rowan had picked it up from him, or vice versa, via sibling osmosis.
Meanwhile, Rowan charmed and interested her brothers. He had enough knowledge of history, especially the wars, to thoroughly captivate Gareth, was willing to debate the finer points of falconry with Aaron, and shared a passion for philosophy and the art of studying people (and leading them) with Hamish. No one mentioned the topic of magic, but it didn’t seem awkward at all.
At last, the feast drew to an end. Margery was tired, but she felt sorry to leave. It had been a good evening.

Rowan lay down on the pallet in the pavilion, thoroughly exhausted by the day’s adventures. Melilana came in, carrying a candle lantern and wearing a white dress; moving slowly, gently, like a drifting, beautiful moon moth or gliding white ship, glimmering faintly in the dusk. “How are you feeling, Rowan?” she asked, gently. Rowan sighed.
“I’m tired,” he admitted, truthfully. Melilana smiled sadly.
“It’s been a long and exhausting day. I would have been more astonished if you weren’t tired.” Melilana laid a long, slender, elegant hand on his forehead, gently. “You’re running a low fever again,” she commented, her voice mildly concerned. Rowan sighed.
“It’s just a stress response,” he demurred. “I’m starting to recognize the symptoms,” he continued, his voice sinking into a dull murmur. Melilana put her hand on his shoulder, slipping it down behind his back and lifting him slightly. She pressed him close.
“Sleep well,” she murmured, then she left the tent. Rowan sighed and turned over. His leg was aching, but it was a good kind of ache, he decided. He had met new friends, and had left Ertraia and seen new places for the first time in his seventeen years.
For tonight, life was good.

It was cold.
Rowan shivered, feeling the weight of quilts, blankets, and coverlet on top of himself. If he was so muffled in blankets, then why was he still so cold?
Slowly, Rowan slid out from under the covers and fell, with a soft, muffled cry of distress. His tentatively-healed broken leg would not carry his weight, not yet, anyway. Slowly, Rowan dragged himself upright, struggling to his feet by the aid of the bureau. Gripping it tightly, leaning on the table, and at last collapsing into the chair by the window, he stared out through the rain-smeared glass. It was raining outside, still, a harsh, cold downpour. Rowan stared bleakly out the window for several minutes, then he slid slowly out of the chair, onto the floor, with a low groan. He had never felt so alone before.

They were talking about him. Rowan could tell by the low tone of their voices. Melilana and Halbryn were discussing something urgently, quietly, outside his door. Rowan didn’t want to eavesdrop, but their conversation was carried perversely to his ears, against his will.
“Hal… what’s going to happen now?”
“He will get better, Mel. I know that much. He will overcome this. He’s like you.”
“But what if he doesn’t?” Their voices suddenly dropped, much quieter now, and they continued to converse in low tones.

He kept hearing them talking in the corridors outside his room. The servants whispered, thinking he would not hear, but he did. He couldn’t help it. “Broken.” “Damaged.” “Will he ever be able to serve the realm?” “Will he ever be able to walk again?” “He’ll never become a knight.” Rowan tried to close his mind to the hurtful rumors, but he was helpless to stop it. Day by day, he couldn’t help hearing them outside his room, when they thought he wouldn’t hear. Slowly, he began to doubt himself. Would he ever walk again? The question plagued him, nagged at him.
Would he ever be able to use magic again?

“Rowan, are you paying attention?” Fortaine asked, looking compassionately at his little brother, who was sitting, wrapped in a thick robe, in a chair, staring blankly out the window at the downpour outside. Never before had Ertraia seen such a rainy summer; it fitted the mood, perhaps.
Rowan sighed. “No. I don’t feel so good,” he groaned. Fortaine bundled him up in the robe and carried him up to his bedroom.
“I understand. Right now, you just need to rest, more than you need to further your studies of magic.” Fortaine set the boy down on the bed. Rowan lay perfectly still, his body stiffening as he drew up the sheets over himself. A rush of energy flitted through him. Rowan struggled to contain it. Fortaine paused at the door, and Rowan clenched his jaw, trying his hardest to tamp it down, to keep it from bursting out. He was fighting a losing battle, he knew.
“Shall I tell Mother you’re not feeling well?” Fortaine asked. Rowan drew in a struggling, scraggly breath.
“Please don’t bother her,” he whispered, fervently hoping his voice didn’t sound as stilted to Fortaine as it did to his own ears. Fortaine nodded, sympathetically, blessedly not picking up on his younger foster brother’s distress. He closed the door. Rowan gasped and threw the covers off. He gripped the bed post for support and cried out, silently, screaming in the blank vacuum beyond as the loose power that refused to be grounded exploded outwards in a chaotic whirlwind, picking up speed as it raced through the room. The storm crashed and jeered outside, as within the fierce swirling maelstrom howled, bursting its bonds and carrying the dam along with it like a river in flood.

Every magic user in the castle sensed the sudden burst of raw power surging outward. It flung several of those who were not gifted against the walls. In the solar, Melilana and Halbryn stared at each other in horror, speaking a single word.
“Rowan!”

Author’s note: Um, yeah. Cliffie. Sorry.

Anyway, is anyone else annoyed by the fact that when you c&p your work into the edit post it sometimes deletes your formatting?… ah well. At least I fixed it… mostly.

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