Ben's NaNoWriMo Log

Chapter 1 added Sep 23, 2005
The last barrel landed in the wagon bed with a thump. "Be careful, Sarah," said Harold. "You wouldn't want to spill the King's beer." The mock gravity of her father's voice made Sarah giggle. "I'll make sure it all gets there unharmed, Daddy." She replaced the slats at the rear of the wagon, securing the neat rows of barrels inside. Harold handed her the mule's lead and stretched his arms up above his head. "I'm glad you're old enough to make these deliveries, so I can go back to bed. Will you be back for lunch?" "Probably not. Lucinda will want the company, I'm sure." She kissed her father on the cheek and started the mule in the direction of the street. In the last year since she turned sixteen, she had taken on a lot of new responsibilities, helping her parents around the brewery. With responsibility had come moments of freedom, like these early morning deliveries. It was hardly a difficult task aside from the loading and unloading; the mule knew the route by heart. Sarah strolled along before the wagon, hands clasped behind her back. The streets of Crown Bay were nearly empty, shrouded in a cool mist that had crept in from the sea during the night. The gray light of dawn revealed ghosts of buildings looming over the cobbled street. The winters on the bay were not so harsh as those further inland, but still they slowed the normal buzz of the city to a muted hum. The snows were thawing now, and the rushing of the river through the city's heart was bringing it back to life. As she passed through Oxblood Square, Sarah could see a few merchants setting out their wares for the morning market. Even in the cold months times were not so hard for the people of Crown Bay. As he father would say, "Where the Crown goes, so go the crowns." King Stephen III kept his court in the city, and his presence was an indisputable boon for the economy. Stephen had been king as long as Sarah could remember, but her parents had told her stories of harder times, when the seat of power had been elsewhere. Sarah Caldwell's family had been supplying the King's beer since it was the Count's beer. When Queen Amelia died without an heir, Stephen -- then John Bafford, Count Falcastle -- had come out on top in the year long war of succession. The noble families of Jal Kufri were notoriously prone to such infertility, so armed conflict was a fact of life. Stephen, like many such warrior kings, had mellowed over the years, and had become a much beloved monarch to his people. The mist was beginning to clear as the sun rose over the city wall. Sarah could see the familiar shape of Hightower, with its eponymous spire rivaling the turrets of the castle itself. It was the King's ancestral home, and still his favored residence when not holding formal court or waging war. Sarah led the wagon around the back to the walled courtyard. The guards let her by with a nod and a smile; she was here often enough to go unchallenged. She guided the wagon to the cellar entrance at the rear of the manor. The stable boy was already there to remove the mule's harness. Sarah opened the cellar door and began hauling her cargo down into the chill. A couple of years ago even these small barrels would have seemed an impossible burden, but she had grown quite a bit of late. Like her mother Frieda she was still small and slim, but honest labor had rewarded her with a certain amount of muscle. The last barrel she hoisted onto her shoulder as she opened the door to the kitchen. "Oh no, not that stuff again," moaned Lucinda as she held the door open. She was the same age as Sarah, but that was their only similarity. Lucinda was wide hipped and plump, with a bosom barely contained by her bodice, while Sarah could pass as a boy if she weren't in a dress. Dusky skin and raven curls contrasted starkly with pale Sarah's straight blonde locks. Despite their differences, however, the two had been friends since they were born. Sarah lowered the barrel onto a counter. "It's winter beer, Lucy, perfect for keeping you warm on a cold night." Lucinda pouted. "Yes, but it'll be spring and we'll still be drinking it." Her eyes twinkled as she smiled. "And I certainly don't need beer to keep warm at night." Sarah giggled. Lucinda's tales of court intrigue had been supplemented by more lascivious fare in recent years. Sarah was always eager to hear of her friend's exploits; her own romantic adventures were purely imaginary. "Where's Cook?" asked Sarah. The kitchen seemed empty without Lucinda's mother bustling around. "She must have gone to the market. I can handle breakfast if she's not back in time. She's taught me tricks to make the best of what's at hand." Lucinda cocked her head as she heard her name being shouted from out in the hall. "Ah, the call of duty. You make yourself at home. I'll be back in a flash." Sarah perched herself on a stool. Lucinda had left a loaf of bread out on the table along with a pot of unidentified preserves. Trusting to Cook's ability to make the summer's bounty last through the winter intact, Sarah proceeded to cut off a thick slice of bread and slather it with what turned out to be blueberry jam. As she took the first bite of her makeshift breakfast, Sarah heard raised voices from the great hall. Lucinda had long ago shown her how to peek through the cracks around the kitchen door, and she went there now to see what the excitement was about. The walls of the vaulted hall were hung with heavy tapestries, and ornately carved trestle tables were pushed out of the way at the sides of the room. In the early winter morning there was normally no business to conduct, but a man in a dark cloak was kneeling before the throne. Standing beside him was a man Sarah easily recognized as William Arden, Count Dunborne. the king's chief advisor. The king himself was sitting on his throne, but he was slumped to one side. The view afforded Sarah through her peephole was narrow, but she was able to make out blood on the naked swords of the two guards flanking the throne. As she watched, they moved out into the room and other guards drew steel against them. The battle was impossible to follow, as both sides were wearing identical livery. Inexplicably, Count Arden and the black-cloaked supplicant stood motionless amid the carnage. Sarah was horrified by the sight, but her feet seemed frozen in place. She looked around the room as best she could for Lucinda. She caught sight of a crumpled form off to one side of the room, in a dress the same color as Lucinda's save for the vast red stain on the bodice. As she watched, the guardsmen traded blows. Some of them called out for help, but none seemed to be forthcoming. In what seemed like hours, but what more likely only a few heartbeats, the massacre was over. A handful of bloodied men stood before Arden and the stranger and bowed. Sarah strained to hear what was being said, though her heart screamed at her to run. "It is done, my lord," said one of the guards. "And the other servants?" asked Arden. For all his political clout, Sarah had never really given the man much thought; he was utterly average looking, sliding ungracefully into middle age. He was not known for his oratory, though most of what he had said in court was directly into the king's ear. "Dead," replied the guard. Sarah's heart sank. Somehow she knew that Cook was not running late at the market. The cloaked man finaly rose from his knees and turned. His face was hidden in the shadow of his hood, but Sarah could tell from the way the cloak hung that he was a man of some stature. The cloak parted as a pair of pale hands emerged from beneath, palms forward toward the line of guards. The shadow beneath his hood was pierced by blazing white light streaming from the eyes hidden within. The men before him gasped and trembled as they stood rigidly, bathed in the unearthly brilliance. The Count's sword rasped free of its sheath for the first time. He went down the line of transfixed guards, hacking and thrusting clumsily until they all lay dead at his feet. He put away his still bloody sword, looking down at the pile of bodies as the light faded. The bloaked man stepped toward the bodies and stooped down, taking up one of their swords. Quick as a blink, he rose and slashed across Arden's arm. The Count cried out and clapped his hand to the bloody wound. "What did you do that for?" The cloaked man dropped the sword to the floor. "No one would believe that you survived without a scratch." He reached up and drew back his hood, revealing a long, pallid face with close-cropped dark hair. Sarah recognized him as a relatively new face around court; Lucinda had called him Monsignor Ignatius. His inky black vestments marked him as a member of the Holy Order of St. Thrain -- an Inquisitor. The Tavian Church had been involved in the governance of Jal Kufri to some degree ever since the Great Crusade nearly a thousand years before. Before the coming of Tavion's grace, the Kufriti had been nothing more than warring clans of barbarians. The Bright Lord's influence had transformed them into one of the most powerful nations in the world. Even those who spoke ill of the Church grudgingly admitted its role in the nation's formation. The stability brought by the Church had to be maintained, however, and amid the brightly colored robes of the Tavian clergy lurked the black blot of the Inquisition. Sarah knew that she should have fled long ago, but she was as transfixed by the scene as the slain traitors had been by their unexpected rapture. Still clutching his wound, Arden looked around the blood-spattered hall. "Is everything in place for our next step?" Ignatius nodded. "There is sufficient evidence to prove that Stephen was killed by a heretical sect." "Good, good." Arden nodded as he began to pace back and forth. "Sherwold and Greybury will fall in line with the rest of the eastern counties when they hear news of this. I should be able to gather enough support in the west to gain the throne without major opposition." He stopped and glanced over at Ignatius. "Once I get the backing of the Church, of course." The Inquisitor nodded grimly. "Stephen lacked the vigilance to protect the souls of his people. He allowed heretics and heathens to flourish, much to the dismay of our Order, and the Church at large. The Holy Emperor will give you his blessing, have no fear." He closed his eyes and placed one hand on the golden sun disk hanging on a chain around his neck. His other hand reached out in front of him. "What are you doing?" asked Arden, taking a step back from the Inquisitor. "I am only confirming that none survive within this place. We must not let anything jeopardize your ascent." Ignatius turned slowly in a circle, his hand held palm outward. Sarah's breath caught in her throat. The pale hand turned slowly in her direction, then stopped. Ignatius opened his eyes. Sarah ran.
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