Echoes Read online

  Echoes

  Bonecarver Chronicles: Book One

  Nathan Ravenwood

  Uruk Press

  Uruk Press

  Great Britain

  Website | Twitter | Tumblr

  Echoes © Nathan Ravenwood 2019

  All rights reserved.

  The right of the author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Cover by Arthur Asa.

  Also from Nathan Ravenwood

  Bonecarver Chronicles

  "Wasted Years" in Sex & Sorcery 4

  Echoes

  The Adventures Of Avery Avedaan

  The Cordax Mondotta

  The Starlight Engine

  The Rings Of Zent

  The Hive Tombs Of Karkaan

  Other works

  "The Paledrake's Promise" in Sex & Sorcery 3

  Original Sin

  London Calling

  Also from Nathan Ravenwood

  Prologue

  Chapter One – Vann

  Chapter Two – Running Free

  Chapter Three – The World According To Rorzan

  Chapter Four – The Shamaness

  Chapter Five – Briarhaven

  Chapter Six – The Altar Of The Howling Elf

  Chapter Seven – Descent

  Chapter Eight – Harmony

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Echoes

  Prologue

  Some said that the Metal Rebellion was destined to repeat itself. They had seen the horrors firsthand, the power wielded by those who played that powerful music. Single notes could bring down lightning bolts, a full band in unison could level mountains. Soldiers who had fought on the front-lines returned wide eyed from the conflict, trembling like trees in a gale at the sights they had witnessed.

  Their concerns were dismissed by their Lords, full of hubri. After all, how could they not be? Many of them had not fought with their men, merely sent them to aid the man who was half of the heart of the conflict.

  For what history omitted from that original account was that the Rebellion started not as some grand act of defiance, not some great movement to defy the High Lords. No, the Rebellion stemmed from something far more personal – a single act of disobedience of servant to master. Rorzan Jetta Diavolo was ordered to destroy the guitar he had helped create, and forget the music that he had found. But in that music, he had found his strength. How could he follow his master's command? So he left, taking an elven princess with him to start down his own path, buoyed by the strength of metal and the power he now wielded.

  And, well... Lord Branna just couldn't let that stand, now could he?

  Dear Reader, I did not have much to do with that initial war. It happened long before my time. But I played a key part in what occurred three hundred years later, where the real story begins. Well, three hundred and one or so, but in order to get to where I come in, I have to go back to the beginning of the second Rebellion. It would start smaller, yet feature many of the same players as the first one. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

  It all began with a single action. But every action starts with a thought, and every thought comes from an influence. Influences have roots, the root is either good or evil, and that is where our story begins...

  Chapter One – Vann

  Whenever Vann cleaned the library window, he always saved the lower right corner for last.

  The library in the eastern wing of the Lord's Palace was a massive, cavernous room with shelf after shelf piled high with books. Vann was fortunate enough to be able to read them; many of the other servants could not. Some of the shelves were so high that they necessitated ladders on wheels to help people reach the upper tiers. Vann often borrowed one of the ladders to clean the window. It was a massive floor to ceiling pane of glass, broken by metal spars inlaid into the glass to form the seal of House Branna. It overlooked the eastern half of the city, the only other building comparable in height being the clock tower about a mile to the northeast.

  On this afternoon, he worked his way across the window slowly, wiping off dust with a rag and a bucket of water, pausing every few minutes to nudge his black bangs out of his eyes. He stayed quiet as he worked, not wanting to interrupt Yilon. The heir to the Lord Branna mantle was teaching some of the younger nobles in the center of the library.

  “...and that is why you Sing from the diaphragm,” Yilon was saying. “Any other questions?”

  A low murmur ran through the assembled children. “Is it true this library's haunted?” a young girl asked.

  Yilon laughed. He had the kind of laugh that made women of all ages blush, along with some men as well. He was the spitting image of his father in his own youth, tall, wiry and strong, with a short cropped mane of poofy blond hair. He had a strong jaw and a clear complexion, with royal blue eyes. “Someone been telling you stories again?” he asked the girl.

  “No...” the little girl said. Vann looked back. The girl couldn't have been more than six or seven, sitting on a stool and kicking her legs. He smiled a little, hopping down off the ladder and pushing it to the end of the window. All that remained was his favorite little nook, a small extension of the window partially hidden behind a bookcase.

  Vann grabbed his bucket and rag and knelt down as Yilon answered the question. “Of course not,” Yilon answered gently, in a tone of voice as reassuring as a tousle of the hair. “That's just an old story. It's been around since my father was a child, and his father before him, and his father before him, and so on.”

  The lower right corner of the window overlooked the hedge maze in the palace gardens outside. There were several little alcoves in the maze, often occupied at this time of day by the palace residents practicing their Singing. Vann popped open a few of the panels so the sound could filter in as he worked. It only took him a moment to pick out the Voice he was hoping to hear.

  “Does the story go all the way back to your great-great-great-great grandfather?” another child asked. “Fala Branna? The one who defeated Rorzan and stopped the Metal Rebellion?”

  Vann began to clean the window, trying his best to follow both the conversation behind him and the Voice in the maze down below. “I'm not sure,” Yilon answered the child. “It very well might. He lived in this palace too, you know.”

  Then, over the sound of Yilon and the Voice in the garden, Vann thought he heard someone say As did I, too, you know. Just forgetting all about that now, are you?

  He paused in his cleaning, looking around the room. The only people in the room were Yilon and the half dozen kids he was teaching. The only person in the garden was the woman singing. There was nobody else who could have spoken. Yet he had definitely heard someone speak.

  “Tell us about him!” a boy said.

  Vann slowly started to clean the window panes as Yilon answered. “Well, Fala Branna was-”

  “Not him,” the boy said, sounding annoyed. “Tell us about Rorzan! Tell us about the Metal Rebellion!”

  Yilon coughed once, and Vann didn't have to turn around to know he was doing that thing where he rubbed the back of his head when he wasn't sure how to proceed. “That's, um... that's something for when you all are older, I think. I don't think your parents would appreciate me telling you about that.”

  Oh, sure, yeah, tell them about the feasts and the orgies. Fun for all ages!

  Vann's head snapped up and around. Either he was going crazy, or someone was messing with him. Trouble was that the voice had sounded nothing like the people that usually messed with him. It was deeper, older, far more rough.

  “Suffice to say,” Yilon said, sounding eager to wrap up the line of questioning from the kids. “Let's just settle for what you already know. Rorzan
Jetta Diavolo was a very, very bad man, who almost brought about the end of life as we know it. When you get older you'll learn exactly what he did, but for now, just be glad that he's gone. Okay?”

  “Okay, Lord Yilon!” the children chorused.

  “Good! Now, our time's up for today. Run along to your parents.”

  The sound of stools scraping across tile and children laughing followed. Vann slowly turned back to the window and returned to cleaning. Lenire was Singing now, putting her full power behind the words and making the pastel flowers around her bloom wide with life. The Song she sang was simple, but her Voice was so clear and elegant she didn't need to weave a complex tapestry of words to make magic happen.

  Vann stopped cleaning and sat down, reasoning he could take a break to listen. Lenire turned in place, holding her arm out to her side as she Sang. Her fingers undulated, as if she were reaching out to the flowers' hidden depths and entreating them to come, come into being. Her almost ivory hair cascaded down her shoulders in curly ringlets, ending at the small of her back. The cotton gown she wore was pure white and loose, flowing around her like water. It concealed much of her femininity from view, but every once in a while she'd make a motion and her breasts would swell against the fabric, and Vann's eye would linger.

  He knew he couldn't have her. But that didn't stop him from watching. And thinking. And fantasizing. Though he only did the last one when he was well and truly alone.

  “Enjoying the show?” Vann nearly jumped out of his skin as Yilon spoke. The young Lord-to -e cracked up. “Calm down, Vann, just me!”

  Vann slapped a hand to his chest in an effort to calm his racing heart. “Scared the hells out of me!” he said. His whole body felt warm and prickly. He had just been eyeing Yilon's paramore, after all.

  Yilon sat down next to Vann, and the two of them simply sat for a moment and watched Lenire Sing. She was in the closing stages of the song, the flowers around her bloomed to three times their normal size and glowing with the light of her magic. She reached down and plucked a lilac off its stem while holding a note, and the flower grew back immediately. Lenire smiled at it like you would a newborn, then let her song trail off as she threaded the lilac into her hair. The glow in the flowers slowly faded, but the section of garden looked far more bright and vibrant than it had just moments before.

  Vann nudged Yilon. “So... you going to ask her?”

  Yilon nodded. “Definitely. Soon, probably during the Harvest Festival in a week. Seems appropriate, don't you think?”

  “Appropriate, sure.” Vann held up his fingers about an inch apart. “Also just the slightest bit tacky. Everyone proposes during the Harvest Festival.”

  Yilon laughed, and Vann snickered with him. “But mine's going to go that extra mile,” Yilon said. “I've got it all planned out and everything.”

  “Ooooh, tell me.”

  Yilon shook his head. “Nope, sorry, no hints.”

  “You ass.” If anyone else had heard that remark, Vann probably would've had his back flayed open. But this was Yilon. The two of them enjoyed a casual friendship going back to their infancy. If it hadn't been for Vann's accident, he would only be one step below Yilon on the social ladder, rather than the… oh, about twenty that he was now.

  “Just gonna have to wait, Vann,” Yilon said, giving him a clap on the shoulder. The two of them watched as Lenire strode out of the garden below them out of sight. “Are you done with your chores for today? I wanted to practice a new Song I was working on and, well, Chesh isn't as good on a lute as you are.”

  “Almost,” Vann said, reaching for his bucket and rags. “Let me just-”

  The doors to the library opened, and both of the young men leaned back to see who had entered. They immediately scrambled to get to their feet as they saw who it was.

  Yilon's father, High Lord Fandar Branna, was the kind of man who simply drew the eye in an “I am in charge, and you will pay attention to me” way. He was tall, and hadn't lost much of his youthful brawn even though he was in his fifties. He'd gone bald, but still maintained a beard that began at his ears and went all the way down to his chin. His eyes were a lighter shade of blue than Yilon's, a softer color, yet somehow much more intense. “Yilon?” he called. “Are you still in here?”

  Yilon hurried out from behind the bookcase as Vann closed the window panes and got to work with his rag again. “Yes, father.”

  “Ah, good.” Lord Brana walked up the staircase to the upper landing to meet his son. His gaze turned to Vann. “Vann.”

  “My Lord,” Vann said, pausing in his cleaning to bow respectfully before finishing up with the window.

  “Yilon, I wished to speak to you about something for a moment.” His gaze hardened slightly as he looked at Vann. “In private. As a matter of fact, Vann, my wife has requested you meet her in the conservatory to help clean the instruments there.”

  Vann bowed his head, his heart doing a flip. “Yes, My Lord.”

  Branna inclined his head. “Off you go.”

  Vann caught a sympathetic glance from Yilon as he left, careful not to let the water spill on the floor as he left. He made sure to close the heavy wooden door behind him, and leaned against it for a moment. He felt the carved sigil of house Branna against his back through the fabric of his tunic, digging into his back like a knife.

  He knew that he should've been grateful to be in his position. Only his close friendship with Yilon had been the reason he wasn't stuck with some of the more unpleasant jobs around the palace. He was more or less an assistant to the Branna family, and there were many who envied his position. But that didn't mean he enjoyed it.

  Vann ducked into a washroom to dispose of the water and store the bucket, as well as clean up a little. He stopped in front of the mirror, making a face and yanking on a lock of his black hair. It was getting long and starting to curl on the ends of his bangs. He was surprised Fandar hadn't mentioned it.

  His scars weren't as unpleasant to look at today, at least. The lines on his throat weren't inflamed, simply puckered and thick like someone had cross-hatched wounds across his throat. The long one than ran up the side of his face from cheek to forehead was the tricky one, but even it was behaving today. All in all, it should have been a good day.

  So why wasn't it?

  Vann turned the question over and over in his head as he walked through the halls of the palace. He knew every twist and turn of the black and white tiled floors, and wondered if he'd lose his sense of direction if they ever redid the tiles like he'd overheard was the plan. The palace was expanded with every passing lord, usually adding a new room for the advancement of the Lords High and Low within its walls. On his way to the conservatory, Vann passed another library, a large art gallery, and an indoor botanical garden being tended to by Songweavers Singing to the fruits and vegetables. He almost stopped to listen, but knew that if he dallied Lady Branna would grow impatient. And she was not a lady to be kept waiting.

  It was the weird voice, he realized. The one he'd heard in the library, almost a whisper. He'd never heard it before. Unless he was hearing things. He stopped short and closed his eyes. No, there was nothing in his head but his own voice. Unless he was finally going mad?

  Vann heard giggling and opened his eyes. A few female Songweavers had rounded the corner and were staring at him curiously. Vann felt his face burn and ducked his head, walking past them without a word. Most of the Songweavers balked at his voice. He wanted to scream at them that it wasn't his fault his voice was scratchy and rough rather than the smooth tones that were required to Sing. Well, it technically was, but he hadn't done it intentionally.

  The door to the conservatory was propped open with a chair, and Vann slipped inside. The room was about half the size of the cavernous library, semicircle in shape. The floor was carpeted to muffle footsteps and not disturb the work of anyone who happened to be toiling within. It was divided into two tiers, one low and one high. The low section of the room held workbenches and chairs for craf
tsmen to tinker with instruments, the upper section held large shelves stacked high with instrument cases.

  Lady Elna Branna was on the upper tier, sitting on the banister railing that prevented the careless from falling off the upper level. She was dressed in a simple robe belted around her waist with a cord, her graying hair drawn up in a bun. Her head turned as he entered. “Close the door and lock it,” she commanded.

  Vann nodded and moved the chair to the side. The door swung shut without a sound, and Vann locked it with the deadbolt affixed to the back of the wood.

  Elna walked down the steps to the first level, standing a few paces away from him. Her dark eyes held a mix of emotions: hunger, shame, frustration. “Remember,” she said, slowly undoing the cord around her waist. “Not a word from you.”

  Vann nodded mutely. He wouldn't have even known where to begin in a situation like this.

  Elna let her robe fall away, revealing that she was wearing nothing underneath it. Her body had maternal curves, hourglassed and thick in a few places. In the dim light of the room, her skin was a soft cream color, her breasts full with a fair amount of natural sag. She reached up and undid her hair knot as Vann stepped closer to her, letting the silvery tresses cascade down.

  Then they were kissing, Lady and servant pressing together, their tongues seeking purchase against one another. Her hands scrabbled at his pants, desperate to get to what she truly craved. Vann managed to get his vest off before Elna made it impossible, her body pressed to his as her hand closed around him and drew his cock out.

  It had started with a simple mistake, and even then, it wasn't much of a mistake. Vann had gotten a bit out of hand and had been taking care of himself in what he'd thought was a private section of the hedge maze when Elna had walked around the corner and stopped dead. There had been that moment of sheer panic as they'd looked at one another, but Elna had simply left, leaving Vann with a sticky hand and a cold fear nestled in his gut that something bad was about to happen. Later that evening, she'd been summoned to Elna's chambers. Rather than a punishment, she'd ripped his clothes off with an almost feral abandon, driven by some primal need for Vann's body. They’d continued like that for several years. Her only rule was that Vann never speak. She hated the sound of his voice. There was no affection in their little arrangement. It was purely physical need.