The Golden Knot: Book 1 of the Echo Land Chronicles (UPDATED WEEKLY)

Prologue

"... Therefore, since through the Mother's mercy, we have this country, we must not lose heart. ... The Mothers have blinded the minds of unbelievers so that they cannot see the light of the song and glory, who is the image of the Mothers..."

(Sermons, 2:4, Book of Patronage)

Naga Bat Nayara rounded the fire-scorched lip of the Great Candle. She rarely broke her stride, faltering only to check upon the night skies.

Her heart-chords fluttered like a murmur of starlings. What if he doesn't come? Blood-fire. That thought alone made her stomach sink faster than the eye of the night.

The ancient Aharim had long ago concluded that there was not much point in worrying. But it was one thing to say something and another thing to do it.

As jagged shards of platinum and ruby light contorted below her feet in brilliant bursts, a sudden churning rumble of thunder from the white and grey ocean of low-clouds jolted Naga to a stuttering halt. He's here. In a single movement, Naga dropped to a fighting crouch and inhaled to draw from her Well; breaking her mind into three shards. Her senses blossomed, and a ripple of anticipation flecked with fear shot through her core. Simultaneously, she thrust her hand to the side to summon the hilt of her Anaerial, Storm Weaver.

Her breath quickened. She waited. Silence. Nothing.

If it was him, she would know by now. He is no fool, he wouldn't allow himself to be detected by such base sensory means. Or would he? Regardless, Naga held her stance and inspected the scatter of stars that salted the night sky with sharpened eyes.

Empty.

With her eyes still narrowed on the stars, she drew to her feet and searched the skyline. In the distance, towards the northern reach, an encroaching curtain of fierce looking storm clouds - purple and black and sinking heavy - cast an ominous shadow over the belt of mountains that marked Castor's Range. Undulating ranks of white cloud atop grey mired all else, though she was almost certain she could make out Nestor's Point to the northwest.

She glanced beneath her feet. The crater of the Great Candle pierced the low-clouds like an enraged needle spearing flesh. The Great Candle itself lacked the overtures of its more conical cousins; instead, this one was more erect, taller; and somehow prouder. Though it was not quite the way she remembered it. Naga remembered a time when the Great Candle was a sign of grandeur; an eternal testament to the Mothers power. Now vast hollows from blasted sections of rock scarred the flesh of the old monument, making the entire structure appear precariously balanced. It now merely stood in eternal vigil–a testament only to damnation.

Naga re-forged her mind.

Despite the situation, Naga found some solace being this high up - or low-down, depending on your point of view. She could have done without the clawing acrid note of sulfur that niggled at the back of her throat, but there was a strange stillness inside the crater that made her feel almost at ease. It was a curious sensation; violent fire-water danced softly beneath her toes as broiling tendrils of scolding air tickled the soles of her naked feet: the raw power of liquid death little more than a hair's breadth away from enveloping her; yet there was also peace here. A strange silence that spoke in the gap between sounds.

Funny that. She thought. The low-landers always reckon that the higher you go the louder and harsher the wind's song, yet once you get to a certain height all you have is silence.