A Curse on the Mountain: Sneak Peek #2

Prologue

At the very top of a mountain shrouded in dark clouds was a city, the capital of a kingdom called Eldore. It had rained for a thousand years, with no indication it would ever stop. Centuries ago the city was cursed by Cai, a god torn from the mortal woman he loved by Death and the borders that limited his influence outside the kingdom he called home. The other gods refused to allow the lovers to reunite after her death, and in his grief and anger, the once loving god turned his sorrow into a curse.

Clouds formed over the mountain and the plains on the first day, dark clouds filled to bursting with Cai’s tears. Those raindrops fell onto the city and continued to fall as the god cried for his beloved wife, withheld from him by the jealousy of his brethren. Over time the clouds shrank as Cai’s power diminished, until only the mountain was subjected to his curse.

The mountain’s name had been lost to time, and the records on which that name was inscribed had long since succumbed to must and mold and damp. The city perched on its crest was called Var Eldore. Like all cities on mountains, the wealthy lived at the peak while those with less struggled closer to the bottom. Unlike all other cities on mountains, there was a slightly more practical reason for this than simple ego or even defense. It was the rain. The rain flooded the lowlands beneath the mountain. The poor built their homes upon stilts of stone, while the rich built elaborate systems to divert the water from one place to another.

The rainwater eventually made its way to the plains below the mountain. The plains muddied and sank and became a marsh, a cold, harsh place where little life grew. What life there was came in dangerous forms. Large beasts of claw and tooth and pebbled leather hide. For the most part, carnivores roamed the thick swamp. Stretching farther from the marsh, the plains took hold again. The great beasts were present there as well, but tamed by the efforts of those who dwelt on the plains. A people apart from their pale neighbors on the mountain, the Ruvi were gypsies and nomads with dark skin and hair the color of blood. Legend told of the time when the mountains to the far east split open to allow passage, and these strangers came to the plains.

The winds swept the grasses and drew music from the reeds at the edge of the swamp. Sunlight warmed the plains, and the Ruvi kept their herds in peace. They traded east and west, and even with the city, though Var Eldore was a dangerous place for a Ruvi to go. Slave markets abounded in the lower city, called the Mire by those who lived there, and the traders weren’t particularly choosy about where their wares came from. They raided the plains and stole children from their beds. The small settlements on the edge of the swamp were all fair game to those vile men with their vile trade. Farther up the mountain, slums and slave markets gave way to taverns and tradesmen, and farther still were the fine shops where petty nobles and wealthy merchants spent their coin.

It was also there, in the highest reaches of the city, where the guild of magic resided. Many such guilds dotted the city landscape. There were those traditional edifices for carpenters and wheelwrights, bakers and smiths in Blathe’s Row, but in the Palace Green, in the shadow of the Royal Castle, the Mage Guild stood as testament to the power and influence of magic.

For every guild there were guild lords. The Mage Guild had nine, though the trade guilds were limited to three. These lords were powerful, wealthy and influential. Through the guilds the people of the city felt security, and over all of this was the king. Every profession had its guild, and every member had protection.

Except not every member was equal. Certainly in trade there were those merchants with more power than others. There would always be a better blacksmith and a smarter alchemist. In magic, however, it was different. There was magic that killed, magic that healed. Magic to build and protect. For each of those schools there were those guild members that stood out. Sentinels who watched and worked closely with the King’s Watch, the city’s erstwhile police force; Enforcers who dealt out justice with the Crown’s grace and no trial; Healers who could knit bone and blood with a touch;  Artificers who made armor and weapons of magic.

Yet these masters of the arcane were only a handful in comparison to the numbers boasted by the guilds of trade and craft. These more mundane men and women kept their heads out of palace politics and avoided places like the Mage Guild and the dangerous wizards it bred. They worked in their forges and shops and simply tried to make a living in a cursed city.

It was at such a shop, on a particularly foul-weathered day, winter beginning to settle in on the mountain, that a man stood by a window staring out at the sky and the dark clouds that still hovered over the mountain.

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A Curse on the Mountain: Preview

 IT ALWAYS rains.

Myr sighed at the sight of moisture beading on the window. He hated the rain. Hated that it made everything stink of ozone and mold. Myr was a slight fellow, with the pale blond hair of a native Eldoran. He was dressed neatly, a dark apron over his linen shirt, black tie knotted simply, and trousers tucked into the top of his calf-high boots. His hazel eyes, uncommon among the usually blue-eyed Eldorans, held a deeper pain than his outward posture would suggest, and there was an unusual grace about the way he held himself.

“Myr! We have a customer!”  Jole, the proprietor of the shop called from the front.

Myr rolled his eyes and pushed away from the window, his melancholy air shifting as he rearranged his apron and  slipped a smile on his face. It was a mask so complete it erased the pain from his eyes—but it was  a mask. “I’ll be right there, sir,”  he called back. He’d been ostensibly organizing the backroom, though in reality he’d simply been looking for a reason to  get away from a particularly annoying customer. He peered out to make sure she had left before heading into the front.

The shop was kept very clean to  compete  with the damp. The floors were glossy red tile and the walls lacquered wood. Oil lanterns hung from long chains to light up the bolts of fabric and lengths of ribbon, lace, and bobbles. Tall jars of buttons, needles, and spools of thread and yarn stood in neat rows. Large books filled with prints of the latest fashions sat on the countertop.

Myr wasn’t sure who the trendsetters were, but he was starting to question their taste. Goring had made a recent, most unwelcome comeback in jackets and bodices. He’d very much hoped he’d seen the last of it three seasons ago.

A lady and her sober attendant stood in the silks section of the shop. With an appreciative eyebrow raise, Myr noted the lady’s tasteful blue gown and approached her with his best customer service smile. The lady’s complexion was fine and slightly tan, a fashion for the wealthy who could afford to leave the rain-cursed mountain and vacation in the sunny valleys and plains beyond it—or at least could afford the skin-darkening creams sold at the most trendsetting salons.

Her hair was dark and her eyes a touch darker, a sign of foreign ancestry. She wore her hair in braids coiled and pinned to her head underneath a wide-brimmed hat of felted wool adorned with wax flowers and birds, something that could withstand the rain without being utterly unfashionable. Myr recognized the work as that of a milliner three streets over. Her umbrella was made of hide and trimmed with pierced leather so fine it looked like lace.

Her low-heeled boots were a match to the umbrella, with buttons made of round blue stones that matched the dress. Myr was betting the buttons were changeable. It was a common way to update a pair of boots to suit a garment.

“What may I assist you with, milady?”  Myr asked with a bow of the shoulders and sweeping gesture.

She smiled.  “I need a new dress for a winter ball. I would like it to be in keeping with the weather.”

The weather indeed. As winter approached Eldore, the rain turned to sleet. The streets turned to ice, and no few buildings collapsed under the weight of it. Not everyone could afford a mage to spell the ice away from their rooftops with fire.

Myr nodded.  “May I inquire as to your color preference? Or may I be so bold as to suggest something for you?”

Myr had always had an eye for color and a charming smile, talents that served him well as a salesman in a fancy dress shop, just  as they had in his previous life.  He kept his eyes on the lady’s face, though he never quite met her gaze. Cautiously respectful was the wisest tactic to take with nobles one did not know.

“Please do. I have heard you have excellent taste.”

“Thank you, milady.”  Myr led her over to the velvets and pulled a few swatches in green, dark cream, and a rose tone that would bring out the tan of her skin. He draped them casually over his arm and presented the colors to her.  “These would be warm enough for the season, and the texture is quite luxurious,”  he said with a smile. They come all the way from Galei.”

She made an appreciative face and fingered the fabrics with a confident eye. She nodded after a moment. “These would be fine. The rose would do for the bodice, perhaps a fuller skirt than the fashion, and a cape to match with the cream for a liner. I would like a touch of fur. If I send one round, could it be done?”

“Yes of course, milady.”

“Lovely then.”  She snapped her fingers,  and her lady’s maid handed over a  small envelope.  “Here is the design I would like to have done and my measurements. Please ensure they are burned after you are finished. I prefer no one else show up wearing a similar gown.”

“Yes, milady.”

“Very good.”

“Then my master, Jole, will write up  your order and see about the rest. Sunshine be in your wake.”

She smiled. “And in yours.”

Myr bowed and slipped away, placing the samples and the envelope on the counter and allowing Jole to take payment. Jole’s wife and daughters did all of the sewing for the shop, all of the fine embroidery and trimming. Jole handled the money, and Myr was the handsome face there to compliment them into spending more.

He was good at it.

Myr ducked back into the stock room and  wrapped up  his organizing. After Jole finished up with the noblewoman, he joined Myr.

“She spent a tidy bit of silver.”  He rubbed his hands together gleefully.  “I thank the gods every day you walked into my shop. I swear you were blessed with god-given charm.”

Myr smiled.

“Now I’m off.  My wife  wants  me home early. Our son is coming home for a visit all the way from the coast.”

“Of course. I’ll lock up.”

“Thank you, Myr.”

Myr let Jole out and locked up the shop, blowing out lanterns and closing curtains, stoking the furnace in the basement before heading up to the loft over the shop where he lived. The small room was furnished with a beaten and dying clothes chest, splintered in one corner from a recent fall where the leg had broken and was crudely repaired. A carpenter Myr was not. A small wavy mirror of battered copper covered with a thin layer of silver hung over a short washstand with a chipped basin.

He lit the lamp next to his cot and glanced toward to the small porthole window on the far wall, overlooking the street. The thick, bubbled glass was difficult to see through. Jole wasn’t the sort to spend money on unnecessary luxuries. A student glass-smith’s work was fine for an attic room. Myr sighed and took a seat on the cot.  His shoulders hunched,  and his spine bent as all of his poise slipped away, and the mask of jovial calm melted off his face to expose the raw pain.

“I can’t keep doing this, Ryall. I  can’t. I  need  you too much. I miss Quinn.”  He reached under his pillow and retrieved a small silver ring. He slipped it onto his finger, twisting it sharply.  “I can only hide so long. I can only keep  living  for so long.”  He clenched his jaw  before speaking.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know if I’m strong enough.”

Teaser

Here's a little teaser of The Hanged Man's Ghost. Enjoy!

Chapter One: 187

The Windy City. I was born here, and my father and his father. Caught in tradition, bleeding blue for the city. Catholic to the bone, too. It was like watching a made-for-TV movie.

    For me, the wind caught the voices of those souls lost to passion and fear. The ones that we found on the street, in back alleys and under bridges.

    But those are the voices of the past. This was the start of a case that would change things. That would change me.

    It started with a hangover, and the hangover started with a party. As it turns out, fourteen mojitos and a dozen or so Jell-o shots do not equate to a healthy morning. At least, I think it was only a dozen or so. There also may’ve been a couple beers in the count. The empty bottles at the end of the bed seemed to indicate that. The young man next to me, brunette with a slim build and pouty lips was pretty, and had probably been just as far gone when we tumbled into bed.

Blinking, clearing the crud from my eyes. I climbed out of the bed and pulled my discarded boxers back on, before stretching out my sore muscles. Where are my jeans? I looked around. His jeans, two sizes smaller than mine with a designer label, were huddled just under the bed. God, he still wore white briefs. I really hope he’s over the age of consent.

His wallet stuck out of the back pocket of his jeans, I scooped it up and flipped it open. Eric Howard, age nineteen. Thank God. I really did not need that hanging over my head. Someone needed to buy the kid boxers. Tucked just behind his driver’s license was another card, student ID? I couldn’t help myself, I jerked it out. Eric Harrison, age twenty-three. It was a fake. A good one. I kept that and put back the wallet.

My jeans had managed to climb the bookshelf. Strange. I jerked them down and pulled them on. The fake ID went in my back pocket. My shoes and ankle holster were sitting by a chair. I strapped the holster on and put on my sneakers.

Is this his place? It had a very dorm-like look to it. Book shelves crammed with junk and the occasional textbook, laundry slumped near a hamper in the corner and posters of half naked men on the walls. Okay, a gay boy’s dorm room, but a dorm room. I looked out the window. There were flowers in a box on the sill. Daisies. I didn’t recognize the street. A sign read East Monroe. Huh. Maybe I’m just down from the club. I grabbed my shirt, checked for my wallet—finding it in my pocket—and headed for the door. The kid woke up with a yawn and grabbed my hand.

“Hey, leaving so soon?” He blinked. Damn, he’s young.

“Yeah.”

He pouted. “Don’t I get a name and a phone number?”

“No, and if I see you in that club again, I’ll arrest you for underage drinking. Do we understand each other?”

He gulped, eyes wide. “Yes.”

Heh, I didn’t even have to flash my star. Hell, knowing me, I’d probably used a pick up line along the lines of, Hey, I’m a cop, you want to go have some fun? I have handcuffs. “Good. Sleep tight.” I paused. “And buy some boxers. You aren’t twelve.” He might as well have been. I buttoned my shirt on my way out the door. My cell phone buzzed as I hopped down the steps. I jerked it out my pocket and flipped it open. “Fynn Adder.”

“I don’t care how fan-fucking-tastic you think you are, Adder. You get your ass down here right now!” Captain Monroe screamed from the other end. I winced.

“Down where?”

“Don’t you check your voicemail? We have a homicide on East Adams and Wabash. You were supposed to be here twenty minutes ago.”

I winced again. “I’ll be right there.” I hung up and shoved the phone back in my pocket. On the street, I hailed a cab. Miraculously, I got one. Maybe today wouldn’t be so bad. I hopped in. “Adams and Wabash.”

“Be there in five.”

Fin


The Hanged Man's Ghost
Coming February 12, 2012!

I'll be running a contest for a signed copy of The Hanged Man's Ghost in February, so keep your eyes peeled! Well, not literally, that would be horrible.

- Cheers!