Spark of Chaos (Spark of Chaos #1)

Prologue (Part 2)

1998 A.S. (After the Shattering)

The sleek horse cut through the night, racing over slick cobblestones with a fearlessness her rider did not share. Sleet battered him. It stung his cheeks and tugged on his cloak, threatening to rip him out of the saddle. He closed his eyes and offered a silent prayer to the Guardians for protection.

It was the Felling Wind, a storm brewed in the frigid mountains of the Fell Wastes. Every man, woman, and child had taken shelter from it—everyone save the rider.

Edmund Flaetfoot cursed his luck, the uneven roads, the biting wind, but most of all the fiendish force that had started a fire in the Royal Nursery.

Lightning lit up a ramshackle pleasure house. Edmund pulled sharply on the reins, and the horse skidded to a stop in the mud. He placed a calming hand on her neck, tugged his cloak back down, and squinted at a sign swaying on its chain.

The faded letters of The Mermaid's Blush were lost in the storm, but Edmund knew Whitemount like his own home, and this run-down hovel of red paint and gold-flecked balconies was his destination.

Why in the Nine Halls would the Emperor's Wise One favor so unsavory a place?

The common room was nearly empty of patrons, save for the truly immobile. He picked his way past snoring drunkards and equally soused whores, wrinkling his nose at the gaudy decor. Some optimistic soul had tried to spruce up the worst of the termite-ridden wood with a layer of gold paint and a dousing of cheap perfume to mask the underlying stench of sweat, piss, and unwashed men.

Edmund stepped into the light of a spluttering candle. A haggard woman stirred in the corner to study the young man with her small, suspicious eyes. Her gaze shifted to the man's tunic and the Emperor's crest: a black sword and two blue crowns on a field of silver. Her face creased like old leather.

"Our dues are paid," she spat out.

"Where is the Wise One known as Oenghus Saevaldr?"

"Wise One?" the woman snorted. "Don't know about all that. Is the big oaf in trouble again?"

A brute with a crooked nose dragged himself out of his chair, planted his feet and crossed his arms to wait for orders.

"I have an urgent message for him—nothing more," Edmund replied quickly. It was common for officials like him to disappear in these dock districts, with no one the wiser for it.

"I'll give it to 'im once you've had a drink. Vigum, there will take yer coin." The woman jerked her head towards the guard.

Edmund's throat went dry, but he stiffened, remembering his orders. He did not have time for these games.

"In the name of Emperor Soataen Jaal III, take me to the Wise One or this hovel will be burnt to the ground!"

The woman looked him over while the guard chuckled. Edmund Flaetfoot resisted the urge to do what he did best: run.

After a few moments of consideration, she stood, spat at his feet, and tottered up the stairwell. With a sigh of relief, Edmund followed. Planks sagged and groaned in protest as they climbed. On the third floor landing, the woman stopped and waved him down a hallway.

"Oenghus' room is the last door there. Good luck wakin' 'im."

Edmund hurried past peeling walls, stained chairs, and the artwork of a drunken, one-armed sailor with a paintbrush. He rapped on the door three times, quick and authoritative, then waited, shifting from foot to foot. When no one answered, he began pounding on the door.

"Who in the Nine Halls is that?" a voice bellowed.

"I have an urgent message for you, m'lord," Edmund yelled.

A loud grumble answered, followed by sounds of rustling fabric, then approaching footsteps. The door opened a crack to reveal a sleepy-eyed woman with a heart-shaped face.

"Quiet down or you'll wake the whole house," she scolded as she ushered him inside.

Flames flickering in a small hearth illuminated a cluttered room, but not the common sort reserved for patrons who came and went by the hour.

The unclothed woman hurried back to a large bed. Edmund watched her slip under the covers, thinking the Wise One's tastes weren't so bad after all. A loud snore broke his reverie—the healer had fallen back asleep.

Edmund walked over to a massive pair of feet hanging over the end of the mattress. Those feet made him uneasy. This would not be the first lord he'd had to drag out of bed, but he was certainly the largest.

Edmund cleared his throat, loudly.

The Wise One's snoring cut off with a grunt, and he lowered the covers to study the intruder. "Well?"

"Lord Saevaldr... Wise One, I have urgent news. There's been a fire in the palace."

"Good thing it's raining," he growled, draping an arm over another woman in the creaking bed.

"M'lord," Edmund persisted. "Emperor Jaal requests your presence."

"Kiss my arse."

"The fire was in the nursery wing." His words were like a crossbow trigger.

The two women yelped in surprise as the Wise One threw off his blankets and surged out of bed. Before Edmund could run, a crushing hand grabbed him by the collar and yanked him off his feet. He stared into the baleful eyes of what could only be a Nuthaanian Berserker—over seven feet of fury, death, and carnage.

"Is Isiilde safe?" Oenghus demanded.

The young man spluttered in fear as his feet kicked uselessly in the air.

"Oen," a second woman interrupted. Her voice was ever so gentle. She slipped from the bed and wrapped herself in a blanket. She was lush with golden brown skin, and in that moment, hovering at the edges of his sight, she seemed a benevolent goddess. "Put him down and let him talk." She placed a hand on the powerful arm—an arm that was larger than her waist.

"Oh, aye, might be a good idea." Oenghus relaxed his grip, and Edmund fell to the floor, collapsing in a breathless heap. He scuttled away from the looming Nuthaanian until he was stopped short by the closed door.

"Spit it out, lad," Oenghus growled, black beard twitching with threat.

"I don't know the details, m'lord." Hasty words tumbled from his lips. "I heard there were injuries... and deaths. I don't know who, but His Majesty is furious."

The bull of a man grimly donned his clothes and tore from the room, his eyes as deadly as the storm.